Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome
by Ihateseatbelts
Summary: Little Harry Potter has always been able to do things that others could not. Now that he's being sent to a school with kids that are just like him, he can finally let his imagination run wild. But when he learns the truth of his parents' legacy, Harry realizes that he has some giant shoes to fill. Very AU.
1. Harry Has A Visitor

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Little Harry Potter has always been able to do things that others could not. Now that he's being sent to a school with kids that are just like him, he can finally let his imagination run wild. But when he learns the truth of his parents' legacy, Harry realizes that he has some giant shoes to fill. Very AU.

**Author's note: **Certainly does feel liberating to upload something after umm-ing and arr-ing for the past millennium. I'm not sure how far I'll go with this, though I'm almost certain that this potential series won't be a detailed breakdown of every school year, since a substantial part of the plot will take place post-Hogwarts. The story will chronicle Harry's growing relationship with wizarding society and magic itself as he tries to find his place in the world. Fanon cliches probably abound. Not really much else to say... romance? This is a First Year fic, so far, so none of that here with the school-age kids, at least beyond teasing. There will be no slash where Harry's concerned, though. Not sure I could pull it off. Anyways, enough of my rambling. Hopefully enjoy, read and review! Flames are more than welcome.

* * *

**Chapter One - Harry Has A Visitor**

For all that could be said about the town of Oakwood, deprived would probably be the last word to surface in the minds of most; the area was situated among several affluent suburbs in the northernmost borough of London, and a sizeable portion of its denizens were either successful local business owners or professionals who commuted into the City.

It enjoyed a relatively relaxed pace compared to the congested roads and perpetual rush hour along Westminster's pavements, and violent crime was almost non-existent. Unaccompanied by guardians, children would freely ride their bicycles down scarcely tyre-marked tarmac roads, while others would gleefully destroy their parents' pride and joy by playing football on their well-manicured front lawns. On a typical sunny midsummer's afternoon, the air would carry the enticing aroma of barbecue smoke tempered by freshly-cut grass and soapy Land Rovers. Today was no exception. It was guaranteed to lift anyone and everyone's spirits – save for a few.

Miss Charlotte Meacham was well-regarded (she would say) in the community as the matron of Oakwood's local children's home: St Cecilia's Refuge for Unfortunate Youths. It was an ancient, ivy-covered cobblestone eyesore that looked terribly out of place in a neighbourhood composed of flawless brick-and-mortar, semi-detached masterpieces. She was among the last of the old guard; a stalwart defender of traditional child-rearing, standing vigilant against a vicious smear campaign that threatened the once sacred English mantra of 'spare the rod, spoil the child'.

Despite her questionable methods, however, Miss Meacham's heart wasn't made of stone (she would also say). In fact, she often cursed her abundance of love for the children in her care: an occupational hazard to be sure. Time after time she had bonded with a child, only for them to be promptly wrenched from the matron's embrace. Such a tragedy usually did little to dampen her resolve – it was all too common and she had to be strong for the rest of the brood – but today was most unusual.

For the past three-and-a-half years, she had been in semi-regular correspondence with a rather odd fellow. It strictly concerned business, of course. The man's name was Elphias Doge, and his letters were even more peculiar than his name would indicate. Apparently, he was a teacher at a boarding school all the way up in Scotland, and had been for over sixty years. Miss Meacham was mildly impressed: what energy the man must have had to keep up in such a hormone-infested environment for so long… that being said, she had dealt more than well in looking after a house of trying infants for several decades (she would say, just once more).

According to Doge, the school was very interested in a child placed in her custody for some time. His mother and father had both attended the prestigious and exclusive institution, and it was confirmed that the boy in question exhibited the same potential to follow in their footsteps. That was especially peculiar. In the seven years that he had stayed at St Cecilia's, not one person had come to _visit_, let alone propose to adopt little Harry James Potter.

Harry was not an unpleasant boy at all. Indeed, he was quite the opposite in Miss Meacham's opinion. He was certainly polite, generally well-liked by the other children, quite brilliant… somewhat eccentric, but that could easily be explained by his level of intelligence. He was definitely well-behaved, but, for whatever reason, did have his occasional _moments._

The first was a week after he had been brought in by the authorities. Harry and little Alice Presley were playing with toy planes in the nursery. They were supposed to be under the attentive eye of Holly, one of the junior carers, but she'd apparently gone on yet another toilet break upon Miss Meacham's entrance after making the house rounds. She'd given her a right tongue-lashing after that stunt. But what she had walked in on was even more outrageous.

One of the toy planes was _flying in the air_. Like one of those fighter planes in the films: it made twists; turns; loop-de-loops and all the rest. While Harry kept shouting, '**ZOOM! ZOOM!**' little Alice's eyes were wide in wonder as she laughed and clapped enthusiastically. Had Miss Meacham not remembered personally removing the batteries from all nursery toys as well as keeping the replacements in her office, Holly would've been straight out on her hide that day.

It must have been a freak incident, she decided. The things scientists were coming up with these days, like solar power – surely the plane was powered by something like that? But she'd seen the determination in the boy's eyes, that confident smile. It was almost as if he were guiding the plane with his words! She pushed such silly musings to the back of her mind… until it happened again.

One day it was yellow polka-dots on the floor of the room he shared with Philip Campbell and Gregory Hines, the next day he'd be followed by a group of frogs hopping behind him in crocodile fashion. When he was asked where the frogs came from Harry replied, 'I like frogs.'

Indeed.

One particularly nasty _moment _took place during the Christmas Eve dinner last year, when the elder children staged a mutiny over the inclusion of broccoli to the menu. Harry triumphantly bellowed, 'This broccoli is _poo_! Broccoli _is poo_!' The children cheered in chorus. Then they stopped for a moment. Some screamed, others laughed, and a few of the younger ones cried. But after a while, a few of the elder kids resumed their cheering.

During all of this, Miss Meacham and the carers sat dumbfounded. The offensive odour was an immediate give-away – they couldn't tear their eyes off of the contents of Harry's plate. Two of the staff resigned after that, one nurse and a carer. Miss Meacham sent Harry to the naughty room; not as a punishment, but simply because she didn't know what else to do. Amidst the loud protests of the small gang of children stationed outside, notably the unmistakeable scratchy tone of Greg's shouting "Free Potter! Free Potter", she stayed in her office, the world dead to her.

What was this boy, she wondered. She couldn't explain how these things kept happening around and to him. Sofas changing colour three times a day, hot dogs being set ablaze, his appearance in closets that were surely locked from the outside… the boy must have been an aspiring stage magician of some sort. _'Thou shalt not suffer a __**witch **__to live,' _the words of a Sister at her old convent school echoed in her head, from an incident where she had been caught with a copy of _The Hobbit _during a French lesson. There hadn't been an incident after that, she noted. That was unsettling; Harry blowing something up happened at least once every other month.

But what exactly did this school want with him? Sure, his parents went but it was a full country away from what he was used to. What if he got nervous and these... _moments _escalated? Or... maybe that was why they were interested in him. Doge could work for the government, and this boarding school business would be an entire ruse to capture Harry! 'Well, at least he would get the help he needs,' she mused.

And with that thought, Miss Meacham lost all apprehension regarding Mr Doge's imminent visit. It was in Harry's best interests that he was looked after by guardians who fully understood the nature of his condition. It had nothing to do with preserving her sanity or even her soul from the... _freak _nature of these misadventures. Although, by the time the supposed teacher appeared on their end of the street, Miss Meacham's eyes had been glued to the orphanage's top window for a full half-hour.

The toll of the relic-like door bell and the irregular pitter-patter of bare feet on top of creaky old oaken stairs marked Elphias Doge's arrival, only to be introduced by Holly. Miss Meacham groaned loudly, cradling her face in her hands while waiting for her assistant to take an age in guiding her host to the office.

'… but either way, that's why it's ill-advised to go shopping for traditional Kyrgyz candles in Finchley. None of them are even _fair trade_! Mr Doge, I tell you – oh!' Holly's inane anti-establishment tirade was abruptly terminated by a groove between the floorboards, stubbing her toe.

'_Holly!_' Miss Meacham shrieked, her washed-out blue eyes as wide as saucepans, while her frizzy grey ponytail whipped about behind her. 'What have I told you about traipsing around without shoes in the home, _especially _when we have guests? Serves you right, you dozy mare... now _where _have you put Mr Doge?'

'Right here, madam! Right here!' a keen, wheezy voice supplied from behind the gangly younger woman in front of the office door. Out popped Mr Doge, a shrivelled old man with white, wispy hair that looked like it was desperately trying to escape. All in all, it made him somewhat resemble a dandelion clock. He'd apparently tried to remedy this by affixing a moth-eaten fez on top of his head which, in Miss Meacham's opinion, clashed horribly with the maroon three-piece suit the man was wearing. The woman suppressed a chuckle – why on earth had she been nervous?

'Ah, Mr Doge, please do make yourself comfortable!" Miss Meecham said brightly, gesturing to the chair in front of her wide beech desk.

'Please madam, I insist that you call me Elphias. We have been writing to each other for _far _too long to warrant such formalities,' Mr Doge said with a wolfish grin, causing the elderly woman in front of him to shuffle uncomfortably.

'Of course,' she replied tersely. 'Holly, would you please bring young Harry to the office? Make it quick, dear. And _please_ get yourself some shoes on the way!"

'But Miss Meacham, I'm trying to stay in sync with the _aura _of the home. You should-" Holly shut up upon seeing the warning look on her superior's face. She scurried off soon after, presumably to do exactly as she was asked.

'So, _Charlotte-'_

_'Miss Meacham_."

'Miss Meacham,' Doge sheepishly corrected himself, quickly glancing at the door behind him. 'How has young Harry been keeping these past few weeks since I wrote last?'

'There's not much to report, I'm afraid,' said Miss Meacham, slightly leaning back in her recliner. 'He's been bugging us for more time to go to the library, but that's hardly news. I'm not sure where he gets the time to get through all the books we have, let alone outside.'

'I see,' Doge murmured, a thoughtful look on his face before he continued, 'you know, his mother was just like that. Very studious, that woman. Destined for high places...' he trailed off, looking off into the distance at nothing in particular.

It then dawned on Miss Meacham that despite all the communication she'd had with Doge, the subject of Harry's parents was seldom addressed. She wouldn't deign to pry into such delicate information; Harry was a ward of the state, after all. But that was besides the point, at the moment. Miss Meacham finally had this man in front of her. He could no longer hide behind the delivery time of the mail to evade her questions. She immediately went onto the offensive.

'What are you wanting with Harry, anyway? Apart from the fact that his parents attended your school, I mean. You say it's really exclusive; as far as I can remember, Harry's only taken his 11-plus exams for the local grammar school. He's very intelligent, but no-one's ever made a big fuss over it.'

'Well, er, you see,' Doge started, looking up at Miss Meacham's steely gaze. He opened and closed his mouth several times before sitting straight up. 'It's an interesting case. Due to the rarity of our, ahem, incredibly successful method of educating the youth in this country, the Education... Secretary allows schools – like ours – privileged access to the academic records of highly-performing students. We've been monitoring Harry's progress since he started in Reception, and well... He certainly possesses the innate qualities that we regard as essential criteria for our students.'

'Such as?' Miss Meacham asked, an eyebrow raised.

'Well, erm, for one... _strong willpower,_' Doge supplied, before clearing his throat rather loudly upon seeing the matron's eyeballs almost drop from their sockets. 'Oh, there are others of course! Creativity, bags of it, curiosity, things like that, of course. It's all very clear from Harry's record that he fits the bill perfectly.'

'Mmhmm,' Miss Meacham hummed with sceptical eyes focused on the unimposing Doge, who even seemed to be cowering a little. He soon found his rescuer in Holly, who had stomped her way back into the office, the plodding of muddy Wellington boots punctuating her every step. Shortly after meeting the elder woman's withering glare, she stepped to the side, revealing a child wearing a faintly amused expression on his face.

'Ah, Harry,' Miss Meacham greeted the boy, beckoning him in with a wave and a smile. 'Do remember your manners, now. This is Mr Doge, he's here to see you.'

'Me? Sorry,' the boy quickly apologised after seeing Miss Meacham's glare return with a vengeance. He turned to the wizened man seated in front of her.

'Good afternoon, Mr Doge,' Harry said gaily, 'I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.'

'Well _hello_, Harry! It's nice to finally meet you too! My, Charlotte,' Doge gushed, ignoring the mutinous growl that threatened to escape the matron's pursed lips. 'you've raised him well, indeed! I must say – the face, the hair, it's almost all James! You do take after your father, my boy.' Harry's shoulders straightened at hearing someone mention his father, an unreadable look written across his visage. 'Really? I -'

'Now I'm sure you both have a _lot _to talk about,' Miss Meacham interrupted, rising from her chair and scuttling off towards the doorway, ushering Holly out with her. 'so don't let us disturb you, by any means! Harry dear, why don't you take a seat on my chair?'

Harry's mouth fell agape. 'The _Boss Throne_?' he asked, incredulous.

'Yes, my _chair,_ Harry,' Miss Meacham hissed, laughing weakly as Doge's gaze remained fixed to the recliner in front of him. She slammed the door behind her, and her muffled voice could be heard tearing into a very meek Holly about the importance of proper attire in front of guests.

* * *

Doge watched as the boy cautiously approached the apparently hallowed 'throne'. Harry ran a hand across a leather arm before turning and sinking into the chair's mass.

'Harry James Potter,' Doge breathed, looking at the boy in reverence. Harry squirmed a little. 'to think I'm sitting before the _last Potter._' The child had a lightly tanned complexion, a strong chin and the tell-tale scruffy black mane that had adorned the heads of several Potter men before him. _So much like James,_ the old man reminisced, before looking deeply into Harry's emerald-green eyes.

'You've got your mother's eyes, Harry,' Elphias whispered with a faint smile. 'Her nose, somewhat. But her eyes, too – just as sharp, just as warm! Forgive me,' he wheezed, noting the boy's perplexed look, 'got carried away with old times, a symptom of age, unfortunately. Please, allow me to introduce myself properly. My name, Harry, is Elphias Cassius Doge, and I teach at a very special school -'

'Hogwarts?' Harry interjected. Doge did a double take.

'My word, boy, do you have... the Sight?' asked Doge.

'Er, well, I can't see without my glasses if that's what you mean,' Harry responded, tapping the frame of his spectacles and drawing Doge's attention to them.

'Oh no, you misunderstand me, Harry,' the man said, chuckling and shaking his head. He leaned over the table, 'I meant to ask... how do you know about Hogwarts?'

'Miss Meacham talks about you all the time.'

'She _does_?' inquired Doge, inwardly cursing for the obvious hope his voice probably betrayed.

'Yep,' Harry confirmed, excitedly nodding his head. 'all the time! Just a couple of weeks ago, she was talking to Miss Browne. It went something like, "It's another bloody letter from Hogwarts again. Honestly, Mavis, what _School of Gifted Children _gives itself a name like that? The man's a schlub."'

'A _schlub?' _Doge asked, visibly crestfallen. He looked up at the ceiling and breathed deeply. 'Well, I suppose nothing can be done.

'Anyway, let's get back on track. Yes Harry, I teach at Hogwarts, and it is indeed a school for gifted children. Very gifted children. It serves to develop a talent you have, and I have it as well. It's a _really_ rare talent, my boy, and Hogwarts teaches it better than any other school in the country, if not the world.'

Harry was on the edge of his seat, his eyes indicating that his imagination was doing overtime.

'What do they teach, Mr Doge?'

_Works every time, _Doge thought with a cheeky grin. 'Mr Potter, my institution's full, official name is Hogwarts School of _Witchcraft and Wizardry. _We're going to teach you all about magic, my boy.'

'You teach magic?' asked Harry after a few moments of silence. Doge nodded giddily.

'I see. So that's what it is that I do,' said Harry after a few more moments. Doge, who had eventually lost interest and was looking uncomfortable, perked up immediately after Harry's statement.

'Harry, what _is _it that you... can do?'

'Let's see... I can change the colours of things, make things fly, make marbles, that's one of my favourites... I trained some frogs and squirrels to bring me stuff... kind of. But yeah, lots of stuff, I guess. Whenever I want.'

'Ah, right, I – wait,' Doge stopped himself, peering at Harry. '_whenever _you want?'

'Uh-huh!' Harry got up from his recliner, nodding excitedly as he did before. 'I'll _show_ you my best trick, though. I've been really working on it for the past few months.'

'Ah, er... if you're sure, Harry,' said Doge, nodding dumbly. He knew he was out of his depth here. Condoning intentional underage sorcery in his presence, all without a wand? _Minerva would skin me alive for this,_ he thought, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. 'Well, Harry, whenever you're ready.'

The boy in question walked back to the center of the small office, behind the chair Doge sat on. The old teacher swivelled round, the anticipation eating away at his gut. Why he was so excited was beyond him. Then again, this was the _last Potter_, and if the rumours were true...

Harry jumped backwards, as if to rest on some imaginary soft mattress below him. Doge gasped and ran towards the concussion-bound child, brandishing a short, light-coloured wooden stick, though what he saw next firmly stopped him in his tracks. As soon as he should have been about to hit the floor, Harry slowly floated forwards, and rose up to half the height of the ceiling. His arms and legs idly flailed about as his body rotated. But what surprised Doge more than anything was the serene look of contentment in Harry's eyes once he floated back to the floor, one foot after the other.

'Well,' the old man said through a gulp, removing his hat and wiping his brow with a purple handkerchief, 'that certainly was... something?' As Doge looked up, empty space now occupied the spot where the boy had stood only a moment before.

'I didn't say I was done, sir,' said Harry with a hearty chuckle. Doge spun around, only to find Harry seated in the familiar recliner once more.

'Merlin's beard... Harry, eleven-year-old children shouldn't be capable of that kind of control over their magic!'

Harry suddenly looked nervous. 'Well sir, I _am _ten. My birthday's next week so maybe it'll be harder then? If it's a problem...'

'No, my boy! Not at all,' said Doge with a wave of his hand. 'I was simply applauding your aptitude being so far ahead of the curve. It really is a rare thing, you see. But then again, with your parentage, maybe it should have been less surprising!'

Doge went quiet, regarding Harry's pensive expression. He spoke up again, after some time. 'Are you comfortable talking about your parents, Harry? I wouldn't want to pressure you in-'

'Of course sir,' the boy interrupted, smiling in an assumed attempt to placate the man before him. 'I lost them at a time that I can barely remember, so while I totally regret not having them around, it's not like I feel like I'm missing out on a whole lot. The kids here that go to families, I'm not jealous or anything, 'cause the home is always full either way. Besides, Phil and Greg are too old to leave, just like me. We'll be a team until the end, sir.'

'Such maturity,' said Doge under his breath, returning the boy's infectious smile, 'they really do treat you well here, don't they Harry?' The boy nodded in agreement. 'You've turned out so well. To think, all the tragedies you've had to endure. What with your parents so shortly after your birth, and then -'

'Sir?' asked Harry, 'Sorry for interrupting again, but what do you mean by 'shortly'? My parents died when I was three.'

'I beg your pardon, Harry?' Doge couldn't believe his ears. _That wasn't right, _he thought. After all, James and Lily Potter were murdered almost ten years ago, mere months after Harry's first birthday. Upon seeing the boy looking thoroughly cowed, Doge cursed inwardly 'My apologies, Harry, I wasn't thinking! I didn't mean to sound like I was disciplining you – the matter surrounding your parents' deaths was rather well-publicised in our world. You came from a _very _important family, you see. Now, you said this happened when you were three?'

'Yes,' said Harry simply, 'in a car crash, sir. I was in it, I remember.'

'A _car crash_?' exclaimed Doge, making the boy in front of him brace for cover. 'Sorry, my boy, truly I am... James and Lily Potter... _died in a car crash_?'

'Sir?' Harry called. Doge motioned for him to continue. 'If I may, sir, we seem to be on completely different pages, here. Why did you call my parents James and Lily?'

'Those were... are their names, Harry.' said Doge with an air of uncertainty.

'No, they're not though, sir,' said Harry more confidently, rising slightly from the leather recliner. 'Their names are Vernon and Petunia, and my brother, Dudley, was sent somewhere else. I'm rather surprised you didn't mention him yet, sir. I've been anxious to meet him for years now.'

Doge stared dumbly after meeting the child's expectant gaze. Eventually, comprehension dawned over him, and he wheezed quietly, bringing a hand to his temple. 'Harry,' he breathed after some time, 'Oh, Harry, I'm not sure how to proceed from here.'

'Sir? Please,' Harry urged, placing his quivering hands on the beaten beech desk. 'Whatever It is, please tell me. I can handle it, I _have _to know.'

'Of course,' said Doge quietly, meeting Harry's bright green eyes once more with thinly-disguised pity. It seemed to unnerve the boy even more. 'you do need to know, Harry. You see, er... Vernon and Petunia, as well as young Dudley... they actually went by the family name of Dursley.'

Harry's eyes widened considerably, but he said nothing, so Doge carried on, 'Immediately after your... er... birth parents' deaths, our world decided it best that you were relocated to your closest living blood relatives. That happened to be your mother's sister, Petunia, married to a Vernon Dursley with a son around your age.

'We kept a close eye on you back then, the higher-ups demanded it. They looked after you well enough, embraced you as their own apparently. But the trouble with magically-able children is that they don't always react well to certain aspects within Muggle environments, like-'

'Muggle? What's Muggle, sir?' asked Harry.

'Non-magical, Harry,' the old man answered distractedly, adamant to stay on track this time. 'Now from what I gather, you were indeed in a car crash, and you and Dudley were the only survivors. Interestingly, it seems that none of our people have been monitoring you since you were placed here.'

'Well this makes sense,' said Harry thickly, wiping away a stray tear. 'you kept talking about how I looked like my Dad, and I was sure that I didn't. He was big and pink, and had _brown_ hair. He used to give me and Dudley piggy-back rides, and I used to pull his moustache...' Harry started sobbing, resting his head on the desk, which was slowly turning grey. Doge left his seat a placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, shaking his head at how much of a disaster this visit had become.

'There now, my boy, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm certain their love remains with you, it's why you've endured so well,' he said softly while gently rubbing the boy's back. After a while, Harry leaned back in the chair, sniffed hard and roughly wiped the tear tracks away from his cheeks.

'It's all right sir,' said Harry, swallowing a breath of air. He slowly spun the recliner around, idly looking through the slits between plastic blinds covering the dusty window. 'not sure what came over me there. I've never really cried about them, or at least I don't remember, it's been so long now. I'm sorry sir, please carry on. I want to know what happened to... James and Lily.'

Doge sighed. It would probably take a long while before Harry came to consider the elder Potters as his true parents, if ever. 'Now Harry, I'm not sure it's for the best after-'

'No,' the boy said with determination Doge had previously never heard in a child. Eyes ablaze with resolve, Harry pressed further. 'I need to hear it, sir. What happened? Why did _they _die, too?'

'It's a delicate topic, Harry,' said the ancient teacher, claiming defeat. He knelt on one knee, looking at the boy levelly in the eye. 'What you must understand, is that our world, the _wizarding_ world, was and is currently embroiled in a war, of sorts.'

'A war, sir?' asked Harry nervously, fidgeting in his seat.

'Please Harry, don't worry too much about it,' said Doge soothingly, 'wars are a common occurrence in human history. In actual fact, the Muggle world only very recently entered what one could call a peaceful period. But yes, we are currently in a state of er, political tension. Remember I said that the magically-able don't react well to Muggle environments?' Harry nodded. 'Well, that's all because of how Muggles use electricity.'

'Electricity?'

'Electricity, my boy,' repeated Doge in response to the boy's confusion. 'it doesn't meld well with our magic, you must see. Any magic, really. We have our own ways of producing electric currents with magic, but place a magically-imbued object anywhere near Muggle technology for long, you'll get-'

'A bloody catastrophe,' Harry finished knowingly, before clasping his hands to his mouth following Doge's hearty laugh.

'You've got it in one,' the man wheezed, before getting up from the floor and returning to his own chair. 'Now we're doing just fine right here, but I assume there's little electricity in this old house. No televisions or those new computer thingies, eh?'

'Just the telephone,' said Harry, looking down at the cream-coloured handset in front of them. A long, coiled wire of the same hue ran all the way down under the beech desk. 'but Miss Meacham would never let me touch that, anyway.'

'I'm sure,' muttered Doge, eyeing the machine with suspicion, 'Certainly, infants and very young children fare just fine around the technology, but when they start showing signs of accidental magic, it causes problems. Muggles aren't supposed to know anything about magic, for the most part. It gets worse as we mature. As our own innate magic grows stronger, and the longer we stay in such magically saturated environments, the more frequent these problems arise. I need a special license to carry this bad-boy in Muggle areas,' he said with a wink, proudly displaying his odd wooden stick.

'A wand, my boy,' he said, noticing Harry's questioning look. 'an essential tool for all sorcery practitioners, at least on this continent. Practising magic in the vicinity of Muggles is highly frowned upon, illegal in most cases. Well, some wizards don't like that. Not one bit. They argue that it's the fault of Muggles for having incompatible property, and we shouldn't be ashamed to freely use our birthright.

'Soon after the Second World War, a powerful wizard by the name of Gellert Grindelwald had conquered much of central and eastern Europe. His movement was especially hostile towards Muggles, and they had planned to eventually take over the world with wizards on top. Maybe you've been taught about all the strange incidents that happened in that region over the past few decades?' Harry nodded slowly. 'I believe your textbooks would refer to them as the Shadow Blitz, but we in the wizarding world gave it an altogether different name: _The Glorious Expansion_.

'There are several areas in that region deemed unfit to live by Muggles. They've cited radiation levels as the culprit, but that's only a cover story in several places. You see, while we are around four hundred thousand strong in the British Isles, the capital of the Eastern Magical Republic in Ukraine is home to five _million _witches and wizards in total. They're doing very well for themselves – I mean, surely you'd think the Muggles wonder where all this extra grain is being exported from.

'Well anyway, most of us disagreed with Grindelwald – we felt that Muggles shared the same journey to claim power over nature, and we fought against him under the greatest sorcerer to ever live – Albus Dumbledore, your soon-to-be headmaster. Your parents, ardent supporters of Dumbledore, were the main and last remaining branch of Potters alive, and like many other families, were facing extinction in the wake of all this inter-wizard bloodshed. They still fought, in the knowledge that if not, Grindelwald would prepare a full-scale attack on the Muggle military. That would be the end of our society, and children, like you, Harry, would be born in captivity, experimented on and feared by the public for the power you can't help but wield.

'Nearly ten years ago, on the eve of Samhain, your parents were ambushed in a safehouse during a mission smuggling wizards out of the Eastern Republic. You were staying by the Longbottoms, old family friends. Lily and James put up an admirable fight, but were simply outnumbered in the end. Grindelwald personally murdered them both, our boys confirmed it. They were brought back and buried in the family cemetery at Godric's Hollow, in the West Country. Both twenty-one years of age... I'm... so sorry, my boy,' said Doge, his voice cracking towards the end of his tale.

'Mr Doge, it's okay, really,' said Harry after a tense minute, 'I never knew them, like I said. But now I know, they died for me. I've got to make them proud, and I have no idea who they were... it'll take some time for me to get my head around this...'

'I'm sure you will, Harry. Take all the time you need.' said Doge, wiping a moist eye with his handkerchief. Upon replacing the cloth in his pocket, the man set a smile on his face and opened his wrinkled mouth once more. 'It's regretful that we have to discuss such matters. But now that we have, we can move onto a much more uplifting subject: your impending tuition at Hogwarts. You've shown me how well you wield your magic, but I must still conduct a simple test. Nothing to fear, my boy,' he added after spotting Harry's look of apprehension, 'just a formality. You've no need to prepare in advance or anything!'

And with that, the wizened Doge leaped from his seat and placed a large, dark metallic cube onto the beech desk. Harry, who evidently hadn't seen the box before, made a face as Doge held his wooden stick aloft yet again.

'Oh yes, Harry, the box was always here. A little trick of mine, and something of a Doge family secret,' he said with a conspiratorial wink. Tapping its surface lightly with his wand, the cube inexplicably unfolded itself, revealing a tray containing various oddly-shaped artefacts.

'Wow,' Harry breathed, gazing at the display of magic in amazement. 'I will find out your secret, Mr Doge, I swear it.'

'Hmm, wouldn't count on it,' the old man drawled, procuring a strange glass tube from the tray. It was about four inches long, and closed on both sides, though one end was perforated by hundreds of tiny holes.

'Now Harry, to perform this test, all you have to do is take this pocket-Augometer, and say, "My name is Harry James Potter" in a clear voice towards the holey end. Can you do that?'

'Er, why?' asked Harry.

'A true name is a terribly powerful thing, Mr Potter,' said Doge slowly, meeting Harry's eyes as he offered the Augometer, 'and we are subconsciously aware of this. Our souls know the true name to be the most potent magic words one could ever speak.'

'Okay,' Harry acquiesced, gingerly grasping the glass tube. Rolling it around in his fingers, and warily lifting it towards his lips, Harry intoned, 'My name is _Harry James Potter._'

* * *

**A/N: **As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

That's the first chapter of the Untitled Tome. Please read and review! Much appreciated!


	2. Albus Marks A Paper

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Doge meets with senior Hogwarts staff to discuss his interview with Harry, two witches catch up over a spot of tea, and an old man reads a newspaper.

**Author's note: **Here we are with another one - not sure how often I can commit to updating, but it should be once a fortnight at the very least. I've got another day off work now, so expect at least one more this week :) I probably should, to be honest - there's less plot progression in this instalment, it's more character-oriented than anything. Please feel free to make suggestions by review, PM, etc. So yeah, please read and review. It's much appreciated!

* * *

**Chapter Two - Albus Marks A Paper**

Cináed's Folly, located deep in the Scottish Highlands, was an unimpressive, if not disquieting sight to most passers-by. Truncated squares of charred stone walls that would slowly but surely collapse under their own weight, and desolate stretches of flat land paved with sand now occupied the space where a majestic fortress once stood proud against the rough hilly surface. High-rising, rusty fences and weathered signs instructing 'Keep Out', 'Danger of Death' and 'No Smoking, It's Inconsiderate' traced along the road-facing end of the ruins in a futile attempt to keep bystanders at bay.

Despite the fact that the fences, weak-looking as they were, didn't even extend to cover the perimeter of the ruins, wandering travellers still steered well away from the structure. That might have had more to do with the foul stench of carrion that emanated from the surrounding soil. A select few, however, saw the immense possibilities that the location had to offer. Those select few did not see Cináed's Folly, but instead would discover the magnificent castle that was home to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Typically, the Headmaster's Tower, which overlooked the Middle Courtyard of the castle, was a lonely haunt at night. The spacious circular office would be populated only by long forgotten dusty tomes, with several picture frames, most of them empty, lining the walls where windows were absent. Tonight, it seemed, would be an exception. As the waning moon shone above in the star-flecked firmament, it cast a ghostly white column of light through a room with hundreds of moving portraits, a number of shining trinkets, several spinning instruments and three people absorbed in deep conversation. Should an eavesdropper observe the scene closely, they would possibly hear the occasional mutters of agreement or dissent from the inhabitants of the hanging portraits.

Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore, the current headmaster of the school, sat on an ornate, tall and gilded armchair, leisurely combing a long, white beard through his spindly fingers as he examined his guests. He wore a set of immaculate purple robes embroidered with strange silver symbols that glittered in the ethereal moonlight. This didn't seem inappropriate, as the tall, severe-looking middle-aged woman standing in front of him dressed in similarly cut tartan robes, and the fez-wearing old man stood next to her stared back at him with ill-repressed glee.

'He Apparated, you say?' asked Dumbledore, stroking his chin.

'That's right, Albus! With nary a pop!' the man replied with gusto. 'Wouldn't have believed it otherwise, had I not witnessed it myself!'

'Good to know that you sympathise, Elphias.' the woman to his left muttered, drawing a long, dark wand from her robes. With a flourish and a faint pop, two leather-backed wooden chairs suddenly appeared in front of the Headmaster's desk. Flashing the witch a grin of gratitude, Elphias Doge made himself comfortable in the chair on the left. The witch followed suit, tutting under her breath as she continued.

'So as you were saying, Harry Potter demonstrated this prodigious magical skill by floating in mid-air - without a channelling instrument - before Apparating across the room without causing a sound, essentially accomplishing that which is unheard of outside the circles of exceptionally learned wizards?' the woman inquired with a sceptical look.

'Well yes, that's correct,' said Doge with furrowed eyebrows, 'of course when you put it like that, one-'

'You witnessed_ Harry Potter_,' the witch interrupted, her voice tart, 'a boy born barely more than a decade ago, perform controlled and complex magic without the aid of a _wand?_ You're sure, Elphias?'

'Why Minerva,' gasped Doge, seemingly offended, 'if I didn't know better, I'd say that you're refusing to take me seriously!'

Minerva, the black-haired witch in question, threw her hands up in defeat and made way to leave her chair, before being stopped by the chortling Headmaster.

'Now now, Minerva,' said Dumbledore, wagging a finger in mock admonishment as Minerva huffed in response, 'we must play well with others. If I remember correctly, our esteemed Madam McGonagall is well-regarded in the Wizengamot chambers for her unparalleled sense of fair-play, is she not?'

'She is indeed, Albus,' quipped Doge, giggling like a child a thirtieth his age, until he suddenly bounced on his chair with a piercing yelp. Minerva smiled in satisfaction.

'Oh do shut up, you old schlub,' hissed a dark-haired wizard with a pointy beard, who happened to be occupying one of the portraits close to the Headmaster's seat. Doge visibly deflated.

'Phineas,' Dumbledore sighed tiredly, looking in the picture frame's general direction, 'I believe that was most unnecessary. Perhaps you wouldn't mind visiting another of your portraits for now, since Professor Doge annoys you so?'

'Have it your way, Headmaster,' Phineas replied flatly, disappearing behind the frame as he stalked off.

'Six months,' growled Doge, his forehead turning an impressively bright shade of crimson despite the present lighting conditions of the office. 'he was Head for a measly six months, one wretched hundred years ago! Why does he have a portrait?'

'As our Muggle friends across the pond would say,' said Dumbledore airily, '"those are the breaks", old chap. Now Elphias, as we have rid ourselves of all foreseeable potential disturbances, I must ask you to keep in mind that Professor McGonagall here has an early start visiting students tomorrow – we must make haste. I believe you managed to procure a copy of Harry's Augometer?'

'You _what_?' McGonagall snapped, clipping the considerably shorter wizard around the ear. 'Elphias, you should know more than most that Augometers are strictly Ministry property! Once used, they contain highly sensitive information that is _not_ to be distributed and _not _to be duplicated!'

'Now Minerva-' Dumbledore started before being silenced by a pointed finger as the irate witch whirled towards him.

'And you!' she thundered. 'How could you, Albus? Need I remind you that you are _still_ a Wizengamot member? What on Gaia's green earth were you thinking?'

'Minerva, while I do applaud your upstanding attitude towards legal compliance,' said Dumbledore calmly as McGonagall's gaze threatened to immolate him, 'I'll have you know that I received special permission from our friend Algernon. Prior to Elphias' visit, of course.'

'Croaker?' queried McGonagall, ignoring a sing-song 'ha-ha' from Doge, 'From the Department of Mysteries?'

'The very same,' said Dumbledore, inclining his head, 'as Head of the Department, and in liaison with the Department of Magical Education old Algie is privy to the Augometer test results that come in each summer. Now, Elphias,' he looked at Doge, 'the test, if you may?'

'Certainly Albus,' the other wizard squeaked, rummaging around in his waistcoat pocket. A few seconds later, he produced a misshapen piece of cloth, cradling it in both hands as he passed it to the Headmaster.

'Careful now, it's hot,' he whispered, 'I had him do the test twice, and this was the second one. I think the first one looked almost fit to explode!'

Surely enough, as Dumbledore eagerly but gently unravelled the fabric around the tube, a dazzling green light illuminated the immediate area. McGonagall sucked in a breath as Doge resumed his giggling fit.

'Headmaster, check the reading,' McGonagall rasped, leaning forward. As Dumbledore drew his own wand to analyse the glowing tube, Doge reached into his pockets yet again.

'Silly me,' he muttered in his wheezy voice, plucking a strip of tan-coloured paper from his coat, 'here's a grading slip. I've already sent one to the Ministry. Wonder what the boys and girls down there will think once they feast their eyes on-'

'Shut up Elphias,' said McGonagall, snatching the strip of paper from the man's outstretched hand, and hurriedly setting it on the table next to the Augometer.

Dumbledore looked down at the slip. Upon closer inspection, he noted that the minute bar chart marked on the paper was indeed blank. Fixing his gaze on the Augometer once more, he gently ran the tip of his wand along the length of the glass tube. The wand's tip gradually began to emit the same green light, and once he was satisfied, Dumbledore gave the grading slip a firm tap. Almost immediately, a series of bars, lines and numbers flickered in and out, eventually arranging themselves into a profile of detailed statistics. At the bottom of the slip, a number burned itself into the paper with a final flash of light.

'What does the parchment say, Albus?' asked McGonagall, her voice trembling in anticipation. Doge's grin looked as if it could split his face apart at any moment.

Dumbledore stared blankly at the parchment in bewilderment. This was unexpected; he'd always held Lily and James Potter in high regard for their extraordinary magical talent, among other things, and while he was sure Harry would take after them both his results were simply unprecedented. _The last Potter indeed..._

'It's a seventy-four,' he finally said, his sharp blue eyes shimmering beneath half-moon spectacles, 'if anything, Harry James Potter is definitely Hogwarts-bound.'

'Well, it's not like we're letting Redmoor grab him,' snorted Doge, 'they'd try any underhanded tactic to get a leg up on the league tables!'

'Is that all you can think about now, Elphias?' cried McGonagall, scandalised. 'We should be more concerned with the Ministry snatching Lily and James' boy to carry out cruel experiments in the name of "nationally beneficial" research. Some second-rate school trying to get their claws on him is of no consequence, as far as I'm concerned.'

'I assure you, Minerva,' said Dumbledore quietly, straightening his posture to regain some composure, 'we have nothing to fear concerning Harry's welfare. His name has been written down in our ledgers since he first showed signs of magic, and his parents specifically demanded he remain in _our _care following his first year at Hogwarts.'

'The Order, Albus?' the witch asked, visibly convinced. Dumbledore smiled.

'You, Elphias, myself... we will all do our utmost to safeguard their child in the coming years. It's in their will, after all, and we owe them as much after the sacrifice they made for our cause. Harry is the last Potter, urban legends notwithstanding, and it is our duty to ensure that he lives the full life his forebears could not, to continue his line for many generations to come.

'Now, I'm certain that far more transpired besides your assessing the boy, Elphias. Perhaps you could summarise the rest of your visit for us?'

'Absolutely,' said Doge firmly, clearing his throat loudly. 'From what I gathered while speaking with the head matron, her charming assistant and Harry himself, that the boy is treated well is as clear as Demiguise hair. I fear that actually might pose a problem when it comes to removing Harry from there for good.'

Dumbledore hummed softly. 'A shame, I agree. But it's a necessity, inevitable even...'

'Yes,' said Doge gravely, 'Muggles and wizards, destined to be star-crossed lovers.' He stopped awkwardly at McGonagall's inquisitive gaze. Dumbledore smiled at the man, knowing full well his old friend's affliction struck yet again. _Oh, to be young and dumb, _the ancient wizard thought wistfully.

'Back to the matter at hand,' Doge eventually wheezed, absently wiping his brow. 'We touched upon a subject on which dear Harry was... seriously misinformed.'

'Elphias?' called Dumbledore as the other man fell quiet.

'Apologies... you see, it was a distressing situation to say the least. I hadn't meant to cause the lad any more pain-'

'_What _did you do, Elphias?' McGonagall hissed.

'I, I -' spluttered Doge, shivering in trepidation as he turned to the witch seated next to him. 'Minerva, _I _had to tell him... He didn't know who his parents were.'

'Well Elphias, he was only one when it happened,' Dumbledore said gently, but when his eyes met Doge's, he was bludgeoned by the dull, hammer-like strike of understanding. 'Oh dear, I see now...'

'I'm so sorry Elphias,' McGonagall said softly, resting a hand on the old wizard's shoulder, 'I can't imagine how you found the words.'

Dumbledore closed his eyes, not trusting them to retain the tears that would surely fall. While his caregivers had apparently raised him well, they had done him a grave injustice by withholding such personal information from the boy. Dumbledore only hoped the damage was not irreparable.

'He knows now, at least,' Doge mumbled, intertwining his own hand with McGonagall's, 'and he took it surprisingly well, though I'm sure he was holding back. I suppose you'll want me to take him to Diagon Alley for his supplies?'

Dumbledore chuckled darkly at the swift change of subject. 'You never were one to wallow, Elphias. I was hoping you'd be available, yes, though if you are otherwise occupied, I could always call on Severus to-'

'_No._' warned McGonagall, stony faced. 'I will _not _allow it!'

'Come now, Minerva,' Dumbledore appealed to the witch, 'Severus lays claim to a very diverse background. He is more than qualified to introduce young Harry to the many idiosyncrasies of the wizarding world.'

'Be that as it may,' said McGonagall, crossing her arms in plain displeasure, 'the man's behaviour is wholly inappropriate. It's hardly befitting for a _student, _let alone an educator. Once again I find myself questioning if Severus Snape is even fit to teach!'

'_Professor _Severus Snape is unanimously endorsed by the Board of Governors, Minerva,' said Dumbledore, peering at McGonagall as his spectacles drifted toward the tip of his nose, 'and boasts numerous accolades for his alchemical practice. The youngest Potions Master in thirty years, to boot. I know the two of you have your differences, but-'

'Albus,' interjected Doge, firmly raising a hand in protest, McGonagall exhaling heavily on his right. 'I can take Mr Potter. It's no trouble, you assumed wrong.'

Dumbledore looked at Doge, then McGonagall, and then back at the old fez-donning wizard. He made a small 'o' with his mouth, and flashed McGonagall a sheepish smile.

'Well if that's all, Albus,' she said, straightening her robes as she rose from her seat, 'I need to get up especially early for tomorrow. I'm expected at Augusta's for afternoon tea, so I can't afford to run late on these appointments.'

'Of course,' replied Dumbledore with a slight bow of the head, 'I would prefer to avoid the wrath of the formidable Madam Longbottom. Please send my regards, Minerva.'

'I shall,' McGonagall said, smiling despite herself. 'Please keep the chairs. They should hold for another month, at least.' With that, she left through the exit on the other side of the room, where the beginning of a spiral staircase could be seen from the edge of the doorway.

'They are very comfy, you know,' piped Doge, tapping a leather arm on his own chair.

'I'm sure,' said Dumbledore, flourishing his wand. A bowl containing what looked like peanuts appeared on the desk. 'Could I interest you in a Cockroach Cluster? I find them to be quite moreish. Minerva detests them, it took all of my willpower not to Summon them five minutes ago!'

* * *

_Only a couple of moments to spare, _thought McGonagall, bustling around a compact stone-floored room filled with stacks of parchment.

'Now _where _did I put it? _Accio floo powder,_' she said with a wave of her wand. A glass cabinet near the office's entrance fluttered open as a small leather pouch buried deep inside zoomed straight into McGonagall's outstretched hand. Releasing the drawstring, she scooped out a pinch worth of glittery silver powder from the pouch. Setting her sights towards her far left, McGonagall marched towards a gigantic stone fireplace.

She hurled the pinch of twinkling powder into the roaring flames. At once, they turned bright green, and the intense heat which previously emanated from them settled through the atmosphere.

'Falconry House,' said McGonagall sharply, removing her wide-brimmed hat to immerse her head in the subtly crackling green fire. As she blinked, she could make out the blurry, viridian-filtered image of what appeared to be a decadent withdrawing room, where a woman about her age, donning an oddly shaped headpiece regularly sipped from a miniature teacup while reading from a newspaper.

'Augusta,' called McGonagall. The woman's head snapped upright. 'Augusta? I'm coming through, are you decent?'

One of Augusta's eyebrows twitched a little. 'You should leave the wisecracks to me, silly girl. Yes, come through.'

McGonagall got back on her feet and stepped into the flames. Feeling the ground beneath her fall away, she was assaulted by visions of countless other hearths and fireplaces, even spotting the odd person tumbling through one or the other, before she eventually landed gracefully, her view of Augusta's room far sharper than before.

'Minerva,' Augusta said, smirking faintly, 'punctual as ever. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'I think you're finally going senile, my dear,' McGonagall replied, her eyes shining with mirth as she collapsed into an armchair beside the other woman, 'though I can't honestly say I'm surprised, considering your absurd taste in head wear. Is that an albatross on your head, woman?'

'Hmph! I wouldn't expect a dirty_, uncouth _half-blood like you to understand,' Augusta quipped, cackling as she dodged a pillow McGonagall conjured with a swift flick of her wand. 'Quick on the draw, as always. How's trix, as the Muggles say?'

McGonagall sighed softly, giving her old friend a wan smile. 'The usual, my dear. Enrapturing prospective students with fantastic opportunities beyond their wildest dreams, that is, preparing young children to have their families torn apart. I'm thinking about selling some of my Hogwarts shares to buy out a resident booth in the Leaky Cauldron. What say you, Augusta?'

'I say,' the albatross-hatted witch drawled, taking a long sip from her teacup before continuing, 'you have no class, Minerva. Though I suppose it would be better than finding you drowning your sorrows in that sty Albus' brother owns. You're making a lot of noise about nothing, by the way. Those children are better off with us, you know that.'

'But to erase their families' memories, Augusta?' McGonagall winced, eyes downcast, 'While the children themselves remember everything, including their glorified kidnapping... I don't know how much longer I can be complicit in this. The Ministry is corrupt to the hilt, and we're fighting a long-lost battle in the Chambers, guaranteed.'

'Families are fragile things, Minerva. Sometimes I wonder if the fond memories I have of Frank - of Roger, even - did more to harden my heart in recent years than anything else.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' asked McGonagall incredulously.

'Just as I said, girl. To have all that I knew and loved stripped away from me in the space of two decades... well, I long for the past. I may have even punished the loved ones I still have for it,' Augusta said, grimacing, 'and I'd do anything to turn back the proverbial clock. But these little ones, the Muggle-borns and upcoming half-bloods, they have it happen to them so early. They have their whole lives ahead of them. You might think me twisted, I _know _you do, but the only way for them is up.'

'Maybe,' said McGonagall, shaking her head slightly, 'but I'll never regret my father dying before Malcolm's grandchildren went off to Hogwarts, I can assure you.'

'It's a sad state of affairs, Minerva,' Augusta responded solemnly, 'I shan't disagree with you there.' She sat up, flexing bony yet robust arms as she put on a bright smile. 'Now must we always waste our meetings discussing the woes of the wizarding world? We _could _have been born goblins, you know. _Mopsy! _Scones, please!'

Not a moment after Augusta had shouted her request at some invisible servant, the faintest _'pop' _accompanied the sudden appearance of a strange, tiny humanoid figure at the witch's feet.

'That was very quick indeed, Mopsy. Well done, girl.'

'Sorry that Mopsy is being late, Madam Longbottom,' the odd being said quickly, dusting off a tea cosy-like dress, her large, pointed ears flapping to and fro. As she looked up at the two witches in front of her, Mopsy revealed a face with disproportionately huge blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a side-splitting grin and a beak of a nose covered in flour.

'Mopsy is making the scones from scratch from when she hears you call, mistress!' As she spoke, she snapped her fingers, magicking a full tea set with a tray of scones on a rosewood coffee table.

'Mopsy will be quicker next time!' With an elegant bow, Mopsy disappeared with another faint _'pop'._

'Mopsy, eh?' asked McGonagall wryly, 'I thought Tippy was your tea elf?'

'She's Tippy's niece,' Augusta replied, bending down to butter a scone, 'and she's far more enthusiastic. She's a _go-getter_, that girl. Keep an eye on her, Minerva. Who knows, she just might be in the running for the next Head Elf of Falconry House!'

'Quite,' McGonagall dead-panned, 'though I hear from young Andromeda that the old Baron Black's elves may have given you a run for your money.'

'Please,' Augusta scoffed, taking a bite out of her scone, 'the _old Baron_ had sweet eff-eay to do with those poor devils, and we all know Walburga's a couple Gobstones short. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - _Dark witches can't train house elves._'

'I believe the mark of a good house elf is that it doesn't need training, Augusta,' McGonagall mused, pouring herself a cup of tea. 'You know, it's shameful - all the time we've spent chatting away, and I haven't asked about little Neville. How is the lad?'

'Oh, he's not so little any more,' Augusta said pridefully, 'he'll be eleven by midday tomorrow. We have to re-fit him for new robes every other week! I've tried giving him a head-start by passing on the Longbottom family Grimoire, you know. Algie's considering doing the same, since he's not looking to procreate any time soon... Neville's got chops, Minerva, but all he wants to do is play around in that greenhouse. He's completely unaware of his station; Herbology and the like is a Squib's work.'

'_Augusta!_' McGonagall exclaimed. 'I know you want the boy to succeed, but he is not his father. Regardless of where his talents lie, Neville must eventually make his own choices, meaning you need to let him think for himself _now_.'

Augusta stared back, eyes narrowed. 'And you have how many children, Minerva?' she said bitingly.

'I'm going to excuse that little remark,' McGonagall muttered, closing her eyes, 'because you know I'm talking sense. Anyway,' she picked up Augusta's discarded newspaper, 'you're well acquainted with our dear editor, Mr Cuffe. Maybe you could help me understand the inspiration behind today's front page?'

* * *

Leaning back in his gilded armchair, Dumbledore let out a loud yawn, before laying twinkling blue eyes on the newspaper before him yet again. The _Daily Prophet_'s charmed-ink-on-parchment dailies were generally deemed tabloids of the especially trashy variety by most learned British wizards, though due to vociferous endorsements from key figures within the Ministry, the Headmaster deemed it prudent to keep abreast of topics written through its sensationalist lens. It would, unfortunately he felt, inform public opinion far more than the fully independent programmes running on the burgeoning market of wizarding television.

Living out his adolescence as a half-blood in a mostly non-magical community during the eighteen-fifties, Albus Dumbledore was especially familiar with the Muggle printing press, at least for a wizard. As such, he still found himself fascinated with the animated ink one would find in magical periodicals, paintings and the like. That and the fact that the daily _Mab and Chip _cartoons appealed to the child inside him.

Tonight, however, would not see a chuckling Headmaster laboriously cut out the comic strips by hand, pasting them in scrapbooks as he went along. Instead, it would see him pore over the headline on yesterday's front page for the seventeenth time.

* * *

**_The Daily Prophet, July 29th 1991_**

**_HARRY POTTER: THE BOY OF TOMORROW?_  
**

**by Orpheus LENNON**

_According to trusted sources within the 11/17 Committee, an education-oriented quango affiliated with the MoM Department of Education, a new record in child augometric testing history was recently attained by none other than Harry Potter, only child of the late Rt Hon. Baron James C Potter, and the last remaining of his respective Grand House.  
_

_The 'Augometer', a product developed and financed by the 11/17 Committee, uses state-of-the-art technology to gauge a magical being's potential magical power, benchmarked against members of its own species and age group. Mr Potter, aged eleven, allegedly scored a 74, which according to the Augo Profile (which averages at 38 for witches or wizards of any age) places him clearly off the scale with an upper limit of 65, a feat officially accomplished by only two other wizards since the test's inception._

_Ministry officials are reportedly rejoicing and lamenting in equal measure. Winona Foster, a senior moderator on the permanent marking panel in the Wizarding Examinations Authority, believed that 'he might be able to do what that old coot Dumbledore never could- knock the stuffing out of Grindelwald for good!'_

_Ms Foster, eighty-two, has worked in the Ministry's education department for almost half a century. In that time, the next highest recorded augometric test reading was a 62, attained by a qualified master sorcerer - a Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt, now a veteran within the Ministry's Auror Office (cont. on p5)  
_

* * *

Setting down the paper, Dumbledore reached for a small bottle-green jar, a glistening golden feather protruding from it. With a snap of his fingers, a notepad-sized piece of parchment popped into existence on top of the _Prophet. _Dipping the feather thrice in its jar, Dumbledore scribbled a few sentences down on the parchment, holding it up to the chandelier candlelight once he was finished.

'Fawkes,' the Headmaster called out to the ostensibly empty office. Following an awkward silence, briefly interrupted by a loud cough coming from one of the walls, a small gout of flames erupted above a wooden post opposite the office table. Left in its wake was a swan-sized, crimson-feathered bird of some sort, sweetly crooning from its gleaming golden beak.

'Good evening my friend,' Dumbledore said reverently, rising from his chair. He walked towards the perch, note in hand, gently stroking the bird's plumage with the other. 'I have a message for you to deliver to our honourable Minister, Mr Fudge, concerning matters of state security. Are you up to the task?' Fawkes gave the man a sidelong glance, seizing the missive with his beak. It ruffled its feathers and in another gout of flame, disappeared as soon as it had come.

'Surely you aren't wondering where the leak came from?' a disembodied voice spat from the walls, 'It was obviously the old schlub, Doge. The man has diricawl dung for brains.'

'Ah, Phineas,' greeted Dumbledore, leaning against his table as he turned to the pointy-bearded wizard's portrait. 'I hadn't expected you to return for a few more days, at the very least.'

'You obviously don't think much of me Headmaster,' the portrait snarled, 'if you believe that I'd let a fool like Doge get the better of me. No, I grew tired of my descendant's nonsensical rambling about "blood purity". I haven't heard that many Ministry officials accused of being secretly Muggle-born since the McCarthy days!'

'Indeed,' Dumbledore half-laughed, casually studying his wand for a time.

'Phineas,' he eventually spoke, 'what's your take on all of this _last Potter_ business, if you don't mind my asking?'

'Unless his father unwittingly sired another snot-nosed brat, I'd assume he is indeed the last Potter,' the wizard responded, rolling his painted eyes, 'not that I'd be surprised. "Light" wizards seem incapable of mastering their own loins.'

'He was your great-grandson many times over, Phineas, do not forget,' the Headmaster playfully chided, his countenance bearing a mischievous smile.

Phineas harrumphed, turning his nose up at his successor as Dumbledore chuckled.

'Speaking of great great-grandsons,' the haughty wizard spoke as Dumbledore's laughter subsided, 'you haven't heard anything concerning-'

'Sirius? I'm afraid not, old friend,' Dumbledore said warily, returning to his seat only to rest on the nearer arm. 'The goblins down at Gringotts are still refusing to entrust the inheritance over to your great-granddaughter, despite Walburga's wishes and Ministry records declaring him legally dead. Orion's will, of course, is iron-clad, while we have no evidence of Sirius' death. Quite the contrary, in fact, as you know well.'

'Quite,' Phineas said, pensive. 'Dragons led by flobberworms, indeed. All of those cursed Blacks, even Potter... why are my descendants such _fools_? I can't blame your cause, Headmaster, naive as it may be, but the twits would have been safer staying on the duelling circuit.'

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

'Well, whatever your sentiments are towards the family in general,' he said, 'you must undoubtedly feel a sense of pride in your long-lost descendant.'

'I am a _painting, _Dumbledore.'

'I haven't forgotten. I didn't mean to hurt your _feelings, _forgive me,' the Headmaster said jovially.

The Black ancestor flared his nostrils. 'Power,' he eventually said, 'is nothing without _wisdom, _something I'd wager the boy severely lacks considering his age... and his father. His mother on the other hand, a Mudblood though she was-'

'Phineas...'

'Oh hush, man,' Phineas scoffed, coiling the end of his beard around a manicured finger, 'as I was saying... His _Muggle-born _mother showed wisdom far beyond her years. An almost unparalleled comprehension of the ancient magics-'

'Phineas, need I remind you that you were dead for three-quarters of a century before Lily Evans graced these halls as a student?'

'The walls have eyes, Headmaster. Obviously. Now regarding my "long-lost descendant", what would you propose to do? You don't have enough time to tutor him individually.'

'I do not, you are correct,' said Dumbledore, sighing, 'I have a couple of candidates in mind, though the best man for the job is currently on yet another World Tour.'

'Oh, _him,_' sniffed Phineas, 'what is it with so many of these half-bloods? Such strong affinities with their magic, it hardly makes sense.'

'But it makes perfect sense, Phineas, the Department of Mysteries allowed the disclosure of a paper on the very subject a few years back,' Dumbledore said, amused by the portrait's huffing, 'not that the Upper Chamber will permit free access to it any time soon.'

The Headmaster slid off the arm of his chair, fixing his gaze upon the starlit sky crowned by a waning gibbous moon.

'Harry Potter, the _Boy of Tomorrow_,' he said softly, 'what will tomorrow hold for you?'

* * *

**A/N: **As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

And there's Chapter Two of _Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome._ Was sorely, sorely tempted to add in an 'over 9000' joke in there, you'll know where, but it's hackneyed beyond belief. I apologise, for it is a tad shorter than the first, but hopefully the next instalment shall make up for it somewhat.

As a side note, there's an important point that I should (and want) to mention. After going over the first chapter again, I noticed that I'd made a _huge _error. Professor Doge mentioned that there are around a hundred thousand wizards in the British Isles - the correct number is four hundred thousand. So the Eastern Republic's _capital _is closer to ten times its population, rather than fifty. That's been fixed now.


	3. Alice Kisses A Frog

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry eats pancakes, Dumbledore hitches a ride, and Elphias takes his charge to Central London.

**Author's note: **Welcome back, folks. If you're planning on following this, thanks for sticking with me! This will be a very short chapter in comparison, but the next one is right behind it! It's mundane in comparison, but so very necessary. Once again, please read, review, crit, follow if you'd like, even flame, and PM any questions you may have should you feel it's somewhat spoiler un-friendly.

* * *

**Chapter Three – Alice Kisses A Frog  
**

As the sun rose over the town of Oakwood, bathing its trees, pavements and windows in a dazzling orange sheen, little Harry Potter was abruptly roused by a burning sensation over the surface of his eyelids. Hastily removing the circular-framed spectacles he'd presumably forgotten to take off the night before and securing them in a leather case under his pillow, Harry slowly untangled himself from crisp white sheets and swung his legs over the red iron frame of the lower bunk bed he'd slept in.

He flexed his joints as a powerful yawn escaped from his lips, only to bash his head against the frame of the upper bunk in turn. Cursing loudly, Harry massaged his skull, leaving his hair even more unkempt than before. He heard a muffled, mournful cry above him, and craning his neck upwards, he squinted at an amorphous blob with a brown mass of curls shuffle out of identical sheets, as if he were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

'Sorry Greg,' Harry whispered putting on a rueful smile, 'woke up on the wrong side of the bed. You should probably get up anyway, it's already-' he glanced at a wind-up clock resting on a chipped wooden dresser, 'five-to-seven. You won't need any beauty sleep for my birthday breakfast!'

In an instant, the cocoon-boy known as Greg ceased his attempt to wriggle free from his duvet.

'B... birthday?' he rasped as he came to, 'Your..._ birthday...'_

'**You right, Greg,**' Harry said in his best imitation of a caveman, '**it Harry berf day!**'

'Birthday! _Harry's bir—thday!' _the curly-haired boy screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes alight with mischief.

Harry's open mouth trembled, his face ashen. 'No...' he exhaled, aghast.

As if on cue, a bevy of hurried, clunking footsteps could be heard in the distance, rapidly making their way to the boys' bedroom from both directions of the oak-floored corridor.

'Rush 'im!' an army of voices cried as the door burst open, revealing a mob of determined yet joyful children, their eyes all focused on a single target.

'Mercy,' whimpered Harry, falling to his knees and clasping his hands together in desperation, 'I plead mercy!'

The mob moved as one, their raucous laughter punctuating every blow as they pummelled the helpless child with the appearance of vicious, formless spectres - at least that's how they appeared to Harry. Greg watched on in horrid delight, until he had apparently had enough and decided to vault the frame of the upper bunk, felling the rabid crowd as Harry's body broke his fall.

'Oof! Ger-off, y'fat pig!' Harry spat. Greg didn't hear him, it seemed, since he proceeded to pinch Harry's cheeks as he recited a tune in an indeterminate key:

_'Birthday beats_

_Birthday beats,_

_For a birthday boy_

_They're the best of treats!'_

With the rest of the children joining in chorus, Greg started waving his arms, leading the impromptu ensemble in the absence of a professional conductor.

_Never take your eyes off an opponent, young grasshopper, _Harry thought with a cheeky grin as he ever so lightly placed his hands on Greg's sides. As he concentrated with all his might, his other senses gradually fell away. _Shock him... shock him... shock him..._

The larger boy continued his game, completely unaware of his victim's machinations.

_'Should you set_

_The pris'ner_ _fre_—urrf!'

Greg felt a small jolt of... something hit him in the midsection, and he jumped to his feet with a tiny squeak. As the other children sniggered, he furiously scanned the crowd, probably in an effort to punish the traitor. Harry saw his chance, launching himself off the dusty carpet and sprinting towards the door, only to have his sole means of escape obstructed by what he could barely make out as a blond-haired boy several heads taller than him.

'Sorry bud, you know the rules,' the boy droned through a yawn, peering down at Harry with heavy-lidded eyes.

'_Et tu, _Philip?' Harry responded, despondent.

'Come again?'

'You know,' the black-haired boy continued, 'from the play? The famous line? Caesar's assassination?'

The older teen regarded him with a blank stare. Harry whirled around in frustration.

'_Julius Caesar? _Anyone?' he called out to the crowd, hoping at least one of the kids would even nod in acknowledgement.

They didn't.

'William _bloody _Shakespeare, for Christ's sake!' he finally exhaled.

'Oh, nerd stuff,' said Greg slowly in ill-assumed understanding as his stomach rumbled rather loudly. 'Huh... Looks like I'm hungry. Anyone else?' Met with a murmured consensus of agreement among the occupants of the room (Harry being a notable exception), Greg made his way to the door.

'Happy birthday, Harry,' he said jovially, clapping Harry on the back as he brushed past Philip. 'Bugsy first in the bathroom!' The other children echoed Greg's congratulations for the most part, except for a shorter blob which had what he assumed to be a dark, neck-length bob-cut and an olive complexion. As it came closer, it leaned on its tiptoes to reach Harry's eye level.

'Happy birthday, Harry!' it said sweetly in a voice that he knew to belong his friend Alice, before giving him a peck on the cheek and running through the now clear doorway. The scene was followed by a cacophony of '_ooooh_'s, '_aww_'s and one particularly noisy claim of '_lurgies_', further adding to Harry's humiliation as he was eventually left alone in the deceptively compact quarters.

_They suck. Every single one of them, _Harry internally groused, _except for Alice, maybe._ The tiny girl had always vouched for him in the face of the formidable Miss Meacham's imminent wrath, undue or otherwise, and she definitely made a concerted effort to better understand him than other resident orphans, Phil and Greg included. All in all, Harry was willing to overlook her unfortunate_ lurgy _problem. After all, she didn't ask to be born with it, and, interestingly enough, Harry had never encountered any clinical evidence supporting the existence of the illness.

That being said, what if he was actually the one with these so-called lurgies? No one else he knew could sneeze a mattress yellow, to be sure. He hadn't exactly lied to the old Professor Doge, but even when Harry could boast some degree of control over his _magic _(the word sounded so natural in his head now) it required total concentration - it was hardly second nature. What use would that be in a dire situation? _Worst superhero ever, _he lamented before brainstorming various monikers for argument's sake.

'The Yard-Long Flash? Nah. Five-Second Floater? Hm. Broccoliturd?'

Harry shuddered at his self-induced reminder of the Christmas Eve fiasco. _That all changes today,_ he mused, retrieving his spectacles from under the pillow to restore his much-needed eyesight. He grabbed an orange toothbrush from inside the dresser and ambled out into the third-floor bathroom, giving his teeth a quick seeing-to before introducing them to the inevitable but undeniably delicious decay that his birthday breakfast would surely carry with it.

Sliding down three flights of newly varnished banisters horse-riding style, he entered the narrow but far-reaching dining hall where breakfast was being served, slipping into a seat lodged between his two room mates.

'Cheers for saving a seat, guys,' he said, scanning the table for any signs of his other friend, 'Say, have either of you seen Alice?'

'Awww,' Greg cooed, pinching Harry's cheek before having his hand swatted away, 'birthday boy misses the missus, eh?'

Harry released a dramatic sigh. 'She completes me, Gregory. Where's the food, anyway?'

'Holly and Miss Browne are rustling up some pancakes with a "super secret" syrup,' Phil murmured rolling his eyes, his voice barely audible over the din of impatient children announcing their displeasure with the service, 'but still, you'd think these kids came from Buckingham Palace or somethin', innit?'

'Yeah, I suppose,' replied Harry, staring at the ageing clock that hung next to a crucifix on the opposite side of the hall. _Five past seven... _Doge was scheduled to pick him up within the hour. He could feel his stomach slowly contorting into knots.

'What's got you so quiet, anyway?' asked Greg, making a face, 'You're eleven today, mate! Bit early for a mid-life crisis dont'cha think?'

It then dawned on young Harry that he had, in fact, completely forgotten to inform any of his friends about his acceptance into a boarding school located roughly four hundred miles away. Pangs of regret eating away at his knot-riddled gut, Harry made to open his mouth in confession but Phil quickly beat him to the punch.

'Bah, he just caught the lurgies, remember?' jeered Phil, grappling Harry into a headlock and ruffling his hair, 'Can't wait to kiss 'er again, I reckon. Ee'll be like a junkie stuck in Epping Forest by dinner, I bet - _yeouch_!' the boy shrieked as Harry bit his finger, immediately releasing the hold.

'You might be taller right now, Philip, but just you wait,' Harry warned, caressing his aching neck. It was through this swift exchange of words and blows, however, that Harry's fears were allayed. He was three years younger than the both of them, in any case - if anything, he'd probably take the split the hardest. But still, there was an undeniably natural camaraderie among the trio; brains, brawn and... whatever it was that Greg did. They shared a bond woven with a godly steel ribbon, far too strong and flexible to be rent by the relatively measly hands of distance or time.

_Besides, _Harry thought, _isn't absence supposed to make the heart grow fonder?_

* * *

Thousands of commuters left and entered the town of Hoddesdon each day, due to its myriad convenient links to the capital. Home to both the Hoddesdon and Broxbourne railway stations as well as a convenient tributary off the A10 road allowed expeditious (though expensive) access for those who had the means to sleep in on a typical London Monday morning. As such, it would go without saying that the decrepit Hoddesdon Omnibus station had seen little to no use for the better half of a century following the settlement's advances in transportation. Nevertheless, the station stood proud in all its archaic glory, awash in peeling canary-yellow paint beside a copper carbonate-coloured signpost that had faded considerably over time.

Surprisingly, it hosted a solitary occupant in a lanky, sprightly old man dressed in a garish plum three-piece suit. Supposedly waiting for a bus that was running seventy years late, he clicked his tongue rhythmically while tapping a well-polished loafer on the pavement, his ankle-long silver beard bobbing up and down in tandem.

His ears twitching upon hearing a brass-like engine in the background, Albus Dumbledore looked to his right, searching the deserted street for the source of the strange noise. As if by magic, a bright red beetle-shaped automobile arrived around the corner on the far side of the street, slowing to a halt in front of the station. If a bystander were to observe the car closely, they might happen to notice that the wheels, in fact, hardly rotated at all. As a black tinted window rolled down, Dumbledore walked up to the side of the vehicle as he gave a feeble wave.

'My deepest gratitude, Hestia,' he said brightly, 'for allowing me to accompany you on this... operation. It is most appreciated.'

'Don't mention it, Sir Albus,' a husky feminine voice replied, 'I owe Lily big time from way back when. Now get in the front, we don't want to draw any more attention than we already might have, deserted station or no.'

'Alas,' Dumbledore said with a chuckle, slinking over to the other car door, 'it appears the Muggle world has evolved beyond belief. I had high hopes for this disguise... almost fooled myself in the mirror this morning, I'll have you know!'

* * *

'...so if one takes into account the nature of the molecule's vibrational transitions, unique though the situation is, it becomes clear that pure water has an intrinsically light blue colour. Happy?' Harry smiled brightly at a forlorn-looking Phil.

'I _just_ wanted a glass of water,' groaned Phil, downing the cup in front of him, 'a nice, cool, _clear _glass of water. Can you just let me have that in peace?'

Harry opened his mouth in reply, only to be interrupted for the second time that morning. Hearing the tired old doorbell, Harry's neck snapped towards the direction of the home's entrance.

'Oh, hello Mr Doag -'

'-er, yes, thank you, though it's _Doge -'_

'Of course, silly me! Please, come inside!'

Greg, who had been enjoying his fourth helping of pancakes until then, poked Harry in the ribs. 'Sounds like Holly's got a new boyfriend, eh Harry? You should get a head start on Alice after all!' he said, waggling an eyebrow. Harry winced.

'Actually, they're -'

'Harry dear?' called Holly, a head of close-cropped turquoise hair poking in through the dining hall entrance, 'You have a visitor!'

Harry gave his room mates a look of apology as he scurried out of the dining hall and into the entrance corridor, greeted by the matron's assistant and a nervous-looking Professor Doge.

'Good morning Professor,' he said, 'I didn't expect you so soon.'

'Indeed, my boy,' the old wizard responded with a smile, casting furtive glances at the walls of the corridor. 'we'd agreed on eight sharp, but there's been a slight change in circumstances - nothing to worry about, of course!' he added hurriedly at the boy's concerned expression.

Harry took a deep breath. _This is it, _he thought. He couldn't help but smile in joyful anticipation.

'Well I'm all ready, sir. Shall we?'

'We shall indeed,' the older man replied, visibly relaxing, 'after me, I should think.'

Bidding farewell to the gangly matron's assistant, Doge (and Harry in tow) left the cobblestone building. As they made their way down the immaculate street, Harry couldn't help but ask the man a question.

'Er, Professor?'

'Yes Harry?'

'Where are we going, again?'

Doge slowed down to a halt, scanning the area for something Harry couldn't put his finger on_. _Apparently satisfied, he held his right hand aloft.

Nothing else happened for a few seconds. Harry was beginning to wonder if all of this were a joke, or that he was crazy and the old man in front of him had long been senile. Just as he made to open his mouth, Harry was yet again interrupted. This time he felt, however, was truly worth it.

A gargantuan, violently purple triple-decker bus appeared in front of them, seemingly plucked out from the aether. Pristine gold lettering spelling 'Knight Bus 23C' was plastered across the upper portion of the windshield. Harry staggered in alarm almost instantly, feeling some unknown force grab at his insides.

Doge giggled in delight. 'Yes, it is quite a sight, isn't it? They don't call it the Knight Bus for nothing!'

The bus' collapsible doors parted in a smooth motion, unveiling a pimply teen with large, protruding ears and chunky, fair-haired sideburns, dressed in a scruffy purple conductor's uniform.

'Awrite?' he asked the duo in front of him through a gaping yawn.

'Two singles for the Leaky Cauldron, please,' Doge requested. The conductor took out a tiny magenta notepad of what looked like tickets, tearing off two.

'Twenny Knuts, fella. Just the Sickle if y'want some 'ot chocolate or chicken soup?' the boy said, flashing Doge a toothy grin.

Doge plucked out a batch of bronze coins from his coat pocket, handing them to the uniformed youth as he waved Harry off to board the vehicle. 'That's alright, my boy, I believe we shall pass on this occasion.'

'No worries, no worries,' the boy murmured in reply, craning his head back at an owlish-looking old man with thick glasses, seated in the driver's cab. 'Leaky Cauldron, Ernie!' he shouted, swinging across a metal pole and jabbing a shining silver button above him to shut the entrance doors.

Harry whistled at the scene before him; the bus was furnished with several comfy-looking purple armchairs, complete with leather seatbelts and burnished brass clasps. A small cohort of sleepy passengers were in various states of undress; one man even wearing a lifebuoy, giving Harry the impression that he didn't find the armchair very comfortable at all.

'I wouldn't get too comfortable,' Doge whispered, giving Harry a mysterious wink as they seated themselves, 'I suggest you strap up tight, my boy!'

Harry was glad that he heeded the old wizard's advice. The high-octane journey to this 'Leaky Cauldron' that followed was riddled with knife-edge twists, turns, and stalls that threatened to rearrange Harry's organs. He was also fairly sure that a triple-decker bus had no business squeezing between sports cars, but decided to put the entire traumatic experience behind him, the bus skidding as it began to ease up around Harry knew to be Trafalgar Square.

'Central London? Isn't it awfully conspicuous for... _our lot?_' Harry asked Doge in a hushed voice, scrutinising the immediate area for any sight for anything out of the ordinary as they emerged from a particularly dank passageway. After considering the old woman playing a flaming tuba accompanied by a dancing spray-painted man in a top hat on the other side of the road, however, he soon reasoned that it was likely an exercise in futility.

'Not at all, my boy,' the wizard replied as they battled their way through the crowded zebra crossing, 'all will become clear in time. Follow my lead!'

Halfway down the other side of the road, Harry felt Doge's hand tap his shoulder gently, and followed the direction of an outstretched finger. As he looked up, he laid eyes upon a tiny, shabby-looking pub nestled in between an antique record store and a book shop. Passers-by seemed to give the building an unusually wide berth as they walked past. Harry felt sympathetic; as they drew closer to the entrance laden with a fading charcoal finish, he was sure that the walls themselves were throbbing slightly, his head strangely following suit.

As they opened the door separating the unassuming establishment from its comparatively upmarket surroundings, the throbs against Harry's skull receded, replaced by a pleasant buzz that seemingly permeated even the air that he breathed. As he collected his bearings, Harry's first thought was that the place was indeed magical - it boldly, unashamedly defied the laws of physics. The dim-lit but obviously well-kept tavern, furnished with polished ebony flooring and tables, and immaculate burgundy leather booth seats seemed far too vast and expansive, in his opinion, to bear any resemblance to its titchy, near-dilapidated exterior. _How did_ _it even fit, _he wondered. Yet that, he mused as he observed the merriment and banter amongst the dozens of faintly glowing patrons before him, was precisely what gave the scene its unique charm.

'She's a gem, isn't she?' piped Doge as he turned towards Harry, his cheeks radiating with enthusiasm, 'The Leaky Cauldron is a very famous place, my boy, all the big names come here! We aren't stopping right now, though - we have much to do yet!' He looked at his watch, and with a panicked squeak, he grabbed Harry's hand before scrambling through the pub, tipping his hat to a balding, toothless wizard behind the bar as they left down the rear corridor.

Had an ordinary child happened upon what the pair encountered next - an entrance to a chilly courtyard populated by dusty, wooden barrels, cordoned off by a large brick wall - it probably would have been an anticlimactic experience considering the recent passage of events. For Harry, though, it was anything but.

There was something alive behind that wall. It beckoned to him, and deep within his chest, Harry found the same yearning calling out to the unknown entity... as if it were trying to grasp past the wall, hopelessly clawing at it. The bricks adamantly refused to indicate anything of the sort - no lights, no buzzing, no noises this time - but Harry knew this was part of the ploy to keep him away. It was almost domineering in its denial of the wonder that certainly lay beyond it; a colossal dam devoid of sensation, immutable and impenetrable. Unbeknownst to himself, Harry snarled in disgust. Doge looked at him quizzically.

'Erm, quite,' he mumbled, trotting up to the brick wall. Drawing his wand from his maroon coat pocket, the ancient wizard tapped a few surely random bricks in an anti-clockwise motion.

The dam had burst, and its prisoner cried in victory.

'I'm _home_,' Harry mouthed. A single tear rolled down his cheek as his knees buckled under his own weight. The tear was followed by another, then a river, and finally a flood, as if to douse the intense affectionate warmth that erupted from beyond the courtyard.

* * *

**A/N: **As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

There's Chapter Three of _Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome._


	4. Elphias Goes To Town

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **A goblin does the books, Elphias eats ice cream, and a young witch takes Harry prisoner.

**Author's note: **First of all, apologies for having taken so long to get this far. It's been hectic out there, setting affairs in order before I go travelling and what not, but y'all don't wanna know about that! Chapter Three was supposed to be a grand exposition outlining the AU's divergence from canon via the visit to Diagon Alley, but while writing it long-hand, stopping it where I did just seemed more organic. This one's a _beast _in comparison to the last, though. It'll be easier to regulate chapter lengths after this instalment, and things will hopefully pick up too, as we'll be on our way to the real meat and potatoes of the first arc. Either way, I wanted to hold off releasing anything until all of these loose ends were tied. So hopefully enjoy, read, review, crit, flame, and/or PM – many thanks for sticking around!

* * *

**Chapter Four - Elphias Goes To Town**

_'I'm home...'_

As the barrier before the courtyard vanished, an immense wave of raw magic surged towards the young wizard, engulfing him in its warm embrace. Harry had never been here before, he wouldn't have remembered, at the very least, but the inexplicable feeling of familiarity and comfort was too powerful to ignore.

_'Harry...' _it called, _'har... harry... Harry...'_

'Harry!'

'Wha- ?' Harry's head jerked back, his senses returning - he wasn't sure when they had disappeared. Staring down at him was a stricken Doge, who quickly helped him to his feet. The brick wall that formed the edge of the courtyard was gone, a large archway standing in its place. They stared at each other for a few more moments, until the elder man's eyes narrowed in comprehension.

'You,' he whispered slowly, 'you feel it... don't you?'

'Yes,' replied Harry, glassy-eyed and smiling giddily, absently wiping tear tracks from his cheeks, 'what _is _it?'

'_Magic_, my boy,' the old wizard said, 'the magic of a dozen thousand wizards. The magic of the goblins, the hags, the elves, and most of all, the _Alley.'_

'The what?' Harry asked dumbly, before laying eyes upon the most ridiculous display of town planning he had ever seen. 'Ah, right.'

'This, Harry, is Diagon Alley!' Doge said jubilantly, rubbing his hands together in delight. 'It appears that you can _feel _its magic! I have a hypothesis, of sorts.'

'What do you think it means, sir?' asked Harry, his voice tinged with more than a little concern.

'Oh, you must stop worrying, Harry,' the wizard scoffed with a wave of his hand, 'you're in little danger. I believe this enhanced sensitivity to magic stems from your intimate awareness of your own powers, as well as your prolonged detachment from areas of high magical activity. In fact, it's not uncommon for Muggle-born children to present a similar reaction, albeit not as pronounced...'

'Hm, maybe you're right,' Harry pondered, looking down at his shoes, 'I mean, I've felt it since the Knight Bus appeared, and then when we walked through that pub. If you're right, though - and I don't mean to question your judgement Professor - but _if _you are, then why didn't I feel _your_ magic when we first met?'

'You do have a point there,' said Doge, dipping his head in acknowledgement, 'I'm nowhere near an expert but it's a concern that is easily addressed. You see, you have a degree of control over your own magic already. You are intimately aware of what one wizard's presence feels like after feeling your own - it's almost like background noise to you now. But a whole community? Not to mention other creatures and the ambient magic in a space such as this.'

'Yeah, that does make a lot of sense,' Harry responded with a satisfied grin, which quickly faded as it gave way to a perplexed look. 'Talking of spaces, though, how does all of this fit? That pub was definitely larger on the inside, and this?' he said, gesturing at what he assumed was a street before them.

'Need you even ask?' Doge chuckled at Harry's huff of dissatisfaction before inhaling with purpose, examining his surroundings with owl-like turns of the head. 'We'll have to cut this magical theory lesson short, I'm afraid, to do a bit of fieldwork. Did you bring your supplies list?' Harry nodded, taking out the piece of parchment that he'd re-read countless times over the past week:

**_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_**

**_UNIFORM_**

_**First year students will require:**_

_******Three sets of plain works robes (black)*  
Three pairs of leather shoes and/or boots (black)**  
__******Three Hogwarts-issue **_cravats  
_******One set of dress robes**_  
**One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear**  
**One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**  
**One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)  
****  
**  
*For girls:** five sets of Hogwarts-issue tunics (white), skirts (charcoal or black) and/or hose** (charcoal or black)  
*For boys:** five sets of Hogwarts-issue shirts (white) and hose (charcoal or black)  
**

**Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags**

**_COURSE BOOKS_**

**_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_**

_******The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk  
The Worldly Witch by Chroniculus Punnet  
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling  
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch  
**__******The Big British Hymnal by Orpheus Rumpett**_  
An Introduction to Enchantment by Caspian Watts  
_**One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi**_ by Phyllida Spore  
The Essential Alphabet of Magic (Volume 1) by Apollyon Chadwick  
Numerology and Grammatica by Eudoxus Ambrose**  
Five-Hundred Exercises for the Fledgling Sorcerer by Quentin Trimble****  
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger****  
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander**  


**_OTHER EQUIPMENT _**

_**1 magical focus (wand, ring OR bracer)**_  
_**1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**_  
_**1 set - glass or crystal phials**_  
_**1 set -**_ _**silver **_**_engraving _****_kit_**  
_**1 set - brass scales**_

**_Regarding pets: Students are permitted to bring a magical familiar at their parents' discretion. Parents MUST, however, obtain special permission from a Governor of the Board should they wish to bring a creature assigned a XXX classification by the Ministry Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.* Familiars with a XXXX classification or higher are NOT permitted under any circumstances._**

**_*Half-Kneazles are an exception to this clause, and are permitted without prior Board consultation._**

**_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_**

'What's with these clothes, anyway?' Harry asked, eyeing a crowd of peculiar wizards and witches trying to win a silver broomstick in an auction, most of them dressed in similar garb to those mentioned on the list. 'I half-hoped the list was a joke. Do all wizards dress like that?'

'Robe, shirt and hose, my boy,' Doge replied with more than a hint of disinterest, 'the staple ensemble of "current" wizarding attire in our humble Metropolitan Britannia. Witches are a tad more adventurous in their tastes - Muggle fashion is rather popular among the younger ladies, I believe. Personally I, as you can see for yourself, like to go the whole ten miles!'

A long, painful pause followed. Harry sneezed.

'Hm... Gringotts first, I think,' Doge muttered with a faraway look.

'Where, sir?'

'Gringotts is the goblin-run bank for wizardkind, most magical beings, really. In our world, Harry, international finance has long been the domain of the Goblin Nation. You'd think they'd be happy enough with that, but...' he narrowed his eyes at Harry's raised eyebrow. 'Oh, you'll see what I mean. Follow me, once more!'

Of all the magical experiences he'd had so far that day, Diagon Alley made the least sense to Harry. It definitely was a wondrous sight; the hordes of adults and children alike wearing attire that wouldn't have been far out-of-place in a Renaissance Fair looked pretty cool in his opinion, and the somewhat aggressive vendor claiming that his Limited Edition All-Purpose Abjuration Powder repelled Lethifolds didn't bother him that much, whatever any of that was. What concerned Harry more than anything else was the surely imminent collapse of a least a third of the buildings he and Doge had passed on the way to the Gringotts Bank.

The area possessed a quirky sort of beauty in spades, but suffered from an abject lack of straight lines. Haphazardly erected flats of timber, slate and steel were strewn across cobbled roads that twisted and turned into the horizon. Some actually lay on what should have been their sides while others - especially those of substantial height - often veered to the side, casting foreboding shadows over jagged pavements. Harry was sure he even spotted one wooden shack suspended in mid-air, apparently supported by nothing but the air below it. The presumed owner didn't seem to care, as a shrivelled old wizard hurled a pot of boiling water through the makeshift window, incensing a middle-aged witch selling Puffskein Pillows directly below.

Not a few minutes of trekking through the absurd scene, a towering, snow-white monolith came into view, dwarfing the blocks of the ramshackle plots that surrounded it.

'There it is,' said Doge gruffly, poking a finger in its general direction, 'the London branch of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Make sure to keep an eye or three open - it generally isn't a place for children.'

As they climbed a set of polished stairs leading to the bank's entrance, they met a peculiar looking man keeping watch in front of burnished bronze doors. He was more than a head shorter than Harry, wore a scarlet and gold uniform and had grotesque features, though that could have been due to the permanent snarl he seemed all too willing to wear. He bared pointy teeth at the pair as they walked past, and Harry was sure whatever he growled under his breath was a particularly nasty curse word.

'Is he a -' whispered Harry wide-eyed as the goblin snapped his fingers, the bronze doors closing behind them.

'Indeed he is,' Doge replied melodically, giving Harry a patronising smile, 'and you understand what I meant now, I gather?'

'Not really, he looked really hard done by. You don't happen to know him?' Doge gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

The interior of the building was even more than its share of intimidating. Several more guards closely resembling the foul-mouthed doorman flanked the entrance hall, which ended in a set of silver doors engraved with a poem of some sort:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_  
_Of what awaits the sin of greed_  
_For those who take, but do not earn,_  
_Must pay most dearly in their turn._  
_So if you seek beneath our floors_  
_A treasure that was never yours,_  
_Thief, you have been warned, beware_  
_Of finding more than treasure there._

'I can't help but think that writing "here be dragons" would be more efficient. You know, because magic,' Harry mused, before tittering at Doge's blank expression. 'A bad joke a day keeps the doctor away, Professor.'

'My boy, are you sure you don't have the Sight?'

'Well if you're talking about clairvoyance or something, then no. I'd be filthy rich otherwise. A millionaire orphan... you could only write it!' Harry chuckled, unperturbed by Doge's pointed silence as they pushed through the silver doors, revealing a grand marble reception hall, with queues from either side that seemed to extend for several miles.

Over a hundred goblins bustled in and out of what had to be thousands of doors, while older-looking clerks attended several large counters. Dozens of parchment scrolls circled the hall high above them, presumably an assortment of client statements and internal memos. Harry noticed that most of the human customers present were either especially laid back or very uncomfortable. _Must be some really bad blood here, _he thought, as they edged towards one of the few service desks that remained conspicuously empty, where a brass plaque reading '_YOU ARE BEING SERVED BY: BOGROD - 7:00 TO 19:00_' sat atop the marble counter.

'So Professor,' he said after some time eyeing the queue beside them, 'we're not here to set up an account, are we? Flying paper and goblins in old suits are all very fascinating, but I wouldn't fancy queueing like that even once. We've got loads to do... Holly's even made me a birthday cake. I can't be late for that.'

Shifting uncomfortably, Doge cleared his throat. 'Well, no. You already have a personal account that your parents opened on your behalf many years ago. We're here to reactivate it, as it was managed under the estate of -'

'Potter, Harry James?' a grisly voice boomed before them. Jolted back into reality, Harry and Doge found the service desk was no longer vacant. Behind the marble counter sat an ancient goblin in a black suit and neck-cloth wearing silver-framed spectacles, his eyes narrowed beneath them.

'Er yes, that's me,' Harry said through a gulp, 'how did you know?'

'Your handler,' he replied coolly, his eyes fixated on the older wizard, 'I know _him_ well. You were late, Mr Doge.'

'Apologies, Bogrod,' the man said stiffly, not daring to look the goblin in the eye, 'there was a spot of technical trouble on the Knight Bus, which -'

'_Never _breaks down,' Bogrod finished for him with a smirk, 'and I needn't remind you that it was in fact Sir Albus who requested that our meeting be rescheduled. I would hope that writing for the_ Prophet _isn't losing you much sleep?' His black eyes appeared to glint with cruel satisfaction as Doge flushed, his eyes darting everywhere but in the teller's general direction. 'You are in possession of Mr Potter's key, I presume?'

Doge nodded furiously, producing a tiny, ornate silver key from his jacket pocket.

'Then if you'd please follow me,' the goblin teller said, gesturing to one of the many identical doors behind him, 'we can try to resolve the matter at hand in record time.'

Doing just as Bogrod had asked, Harry and Doge trailed behind the teller as he led them down a passageway behind one of the doors. Soon enough, they approached a golden rimmed, porthole-like recess on the left side of the dry-stone corridor. Bogrod snapped his fingers, and as the porthole melted away, beckoned his customers to walk through. Harry did so hesitantly, and was more than faintly surprised upon entering the comparatively ordinary study. In fact, the olive-green cabinets behind the plain white workstation looked as if they could have been lifted from any of the thousands of near identical offices in the City.

Climbing onto an iron chair behind the table, the goblin teller waved an open palm. A cabinet near the top left rumbled slightly, and a thick, leather-bound file materialised on top of the desk. Doge apparently took this as his cue to sit down, with Harry following suit.

Bogrod shuffled around and plopped down onto his seat, frighteningly long fingers intertwined as he regarded the two wizards in front of him with a calculating look. 'Mr Potter,' he said slowly, reading from a page near the end of the file, 'Harry James, son of James Charlus and Lily Marie, born on July thirty-first in nineteen-eighty at one minute past midnight. Previous guardians were a Vernon Paul and Petunia Christine Dursley, and you are currently... a ward of court, under the Family Division of Her Majesty's High Court of Justice in England. This is correct?'

'Yes, to my knowledge,' Harry replied uncertainly.

The goblin stared at the boy for a few more moments. 'Right - in that case, I'll just need to perform a short identity assessment,' he said as he opened a drawer of the workstation, removing a stack of glass swab-like objects before handing one to the young wizard. 'Simply graze the inside of your cheek with the end - no further action required.'

Harry warily looked at the teller, then the swab, and then at Doge, who urged him to comply with an encouraging smile. He traced the wall of his right cheek as requested, and upon examining it, he noticed that the glass material had acquired a distinct coppery colour. He returned the swab to Bogrod, who turned to another page with his free hand. He tapped the file with the coppery instrument, nodding to himself and clicking his tongue as he closed the book for a moment.

'We have a match,' he muttered, glancing at the child again, before adjusting his glasses. 'As such, Mr Potter, I am obligated to inform you of a couple of important matters before we reactivate your account today. Is this acceptable?' Harry nodded. 'Good to know. First of all, in this file I have a document processed by the British Wizarding Probate Registry on behalf of your parents. It concerns your guardianship, and therefore the caretaker of your estate until you come of age.'

'My guardianship?'

'Yes. According to the document, Mr and Mrs Potter intended for you to spend your formative years in the custody of your maternal aunt. In the event that your aunt should be incapable of securing your welfare under any circumstances, you were to remain in the Muggle world for reasons that are apparently to remain undisclosed until you come of age. Regardless, following your first year of magical education, they wished for custodial rights to be transferred to our esteemed Sir Albus Dumbledore, who would in turn appoint a Potter-approved proxy should he be unavailable at any time. Presumably the appointed candidate would be Mr Doge here. I believe you shall meet Sir Albus in person within your first week at school, as mandated by the Ministry's Wizarding Minors Welfare Office. Is this understood, Mr Potter?'

Harry felt somewhat uneasy. This man, _Sir _Albus, the most powerful sorcerer in history according to Professor Doge, was to be his official guardian. Even if he was uncommonly busy, why hadn't Harry even met him yet? Realising he had no choice, however, it being his birth parents' wishes, Harry inclined his head with feigned confidence.

Bogrod grunted in approval. 'Onto our second item of business, then? I must inform you, Mr Potter, that once you do reach the age of majority, which in the Wizarding Union of Britannia will be on your seventeenth birthday, you shall obtain control of all contents and assets managed under the technically dormant Potter Estate.'

'What, exactly, do you mean by "technically"?' Doge inquired, levelling a suspicious gaze on the goblin.

'The Potter Estate, as you are well aware, Mr Doge,' the goblin said quietly, meeting the wizard's eyes with equal scrutiny, 'claims a fifty-three per cent share of the Potlab Corporation, which is fully operational within the British territories and beyond, and is currently entrusted to other shareholders within your... _collective_. Not public knowledge of course, but you are aware nonetheless.'

'Ah yes, that's right,' Doge mumbled, shutting up immediately after. Harry quickly glanced at the skittish old wizard, his opinion of him rapidly dwindling despite himself. For all his kindness and helpful knowledge so far, the man seemed easily intimidated by almost everyone.

'My parents had a business?' he asked, turning back to the teller.

'Your _family _owned the business, Mr Potter. You shall also obtain the family home which is... the, ah, Crucible... Unplottable. Its location is to be disclosed to your guardian following your first year of school. The contents of the Potter vault are sealed and shall remain so until you reach majority, and the maximum amount of money you are permitted to withdraw from your personal account has been limited to one thousand Galleons per annum. A further four thousand Galleons per annum is to be entrusted to your guardian to cover tuition fees, supplies and general upkeep.'

'So that's... what, thirty thousand of these Galleons? And there's still _more_? Is there an exchange rate into pound sterling or something?'

Doge began to cough loudly, his brow and cheeks bright red. Harry was certain the man was not long for this world.

'Do you think me a _criminal, _Mr Potter?' Bogrod snarled, his voice dangerously low.

'Er, no, I didn't mean -' Harry stammered, but stopped as the goblin raised a finger. There was an awkward pause after Doge's coughing fit eventually subsided.

'Not to worry Mr Potter, it was a momentary lapse of judgement on my part. My sincerest apologies; you must understand that it is outlawed for states with seats in the International Confederation of Wizards to permit the exchange of magical and Muggle currencies. Whether there are ways around it is neither here nor there, but as you have only been recently introduced to our world, you were not to know. For that, Mr Potter, I am sorry.'

Harry had the distinct impression that the goblin didn't do that often. Bogrod cleared his throat, and continued as if nothing had occurred.

'I suppose it would be prudent to explain how our currency works. The wizarding world, and by extension the international community of magical beings, has its single currency in the Galleon. A golden Galleon is worth seventeen silver Sickles, and is in turn equivalent to four-hundred-and-ninety-three bronze Knuts. A newspaper, let's say the Daily Prophet -' he snarled at Doge, the wizard squeaking in response, '- is priced at six Knuts, while a post owl would generally cost at least forty galleons. Your family estate, from the most recent record, was estimated at -' he paused to consult the pages of the leather-bound file, '- have a look, Mr Potter.'

Accepting the file from Bogrod, Harry's eyes scanned the statement on the parchment before him. As he laid eyes on the net figure, he gasped. His mouth moved, but no words came. He closed the file and carefully handed it back towards the teller.

'Off the record, Mr Potter, you might be regarded a most unusual wizard for your station.' the goblin said.

'How come?'

'Hogwarts is a most prestigious institution, Mr Potter. While the wealthier circles of our world will no doubt be aware of your upbringing given the recent press, they will be unable to relate. I would assume, however, that you share the same attitude towards blatant displays of opulence that was characteristic of your ancestors. Honour them, young wizard.'

'I'll... do my best, sir,' Harry responded awkwardly, gazing at the cabinets behind the goblin. Doge, whom Harry had almost completely forgotten about, clapped the boy on the back with a wheezy laugh.

'You'll do just fine, my boy,' the man said with vigour, 'just fine! Will that be all, Bogrod?'

The goblin hopped back on top of his seat, waving a palm as he did before. The same cabinet rumbled, but this time, a small leather drawstring pouch appeared on top of the file instead. As he sat back down, he turned to the younger wizard once more.

'This pouch is tied to your account, Mr Potter. It currently contains fifteen Galleons and five hundred Sickles, and will automatically refill at the fifty Sickle mark, that is, until you reach your annual limit.'

'Magic is brilliant,' the boy breathed, gazing at the pouch in awe.

* * *

Even as they left Gringotts, Harry couldn't take his eyes off of his new Sickle Bag, mulling over all that it symbolised. Bogrod mentioned that Hogwarts taught many rich students; he was one of them, it seemed, but he doubted that any of them had only been recently informed. He ran up to Doge who, for a wizard his age, was walking away from the bank at a consistent and remarkable pace.

'Professor,' he called, tugging at the sleeve of the man's jacket. Snapping back into focus, Doge ceased his frantic escape to acknowledge the younger wizard. 'I'm still a little confused about this. That company... how did my family do it?'

Doge smiled down at the boy, patting him on the head. Harry did not appreciate it, but decided against saying anything as the ancient wizard began to speak.

'Wizards, Harry, are no different from Muggles in this regard. Some are just old money, others find an angle. Your family, though, was all of both! It's all about _metal_, my boy.' He grinned widely at the boy's furrowed brows. 'Now while a wizard's magic can do just about anything if he knows how to do it _and _has the _balls_ to do it, some things are just plain difficult. Transforming matter into a single, pure transition metal on an industrial scale - you know, your irons and your zincs and whatnot - is an absolute nightmare, and conjuring them from nothing even worse. Treble the difficulty for most precious metals. Anything more than six-carat gold? Make yourself a Philosopher's Stone, but then working at all would become redundant!

'Either way, your family's had a knack for doing just that. Not pure gold of course,' he said, chuckling as Harry gasped, 'no, the goblins are miles further than us on that one, but their Galleons still come from the ground, be sure of that. No, the Potters happened to have an uncanny ability for transfiguration: the branch of sorcery used to physically alter an object's form. That's how Gil the Potter joined the Wizard's Council way back when. They say it all started with cauldrons - copper, brass, pewter - and then the business just ballooned. There are still manufacturers under the Potlab banner, but the bulk of the profits come from raw material production. High quality alloys, mass-produced in alchemical plants. That's a blend of transfiguration and potioneering theory, since I see your cogs turning.'

'I did wonder that,' said Harry thoughtfully, remembering a library book he'd read on alchemy a few months prior. While Doge made no mention of philosophy or the transformation of the soul (if it even existed, maybe that's what magic was?), he'd certainly inferred that wizards were running circles around their Muggle counterparts. 'So I'll have to carry this all on, Professor?'

'Well, you're not obliged by any means, my boy,' Doge replied airily as he waved off a wizard in a purple top hat, 'though most generations of Potters have done just that. Well, that or blasting other wizards to smithereens. Your father was quite good at it, I must say.' Harry paled considerably as the old wizard barked a dry laugh. Maybe he'd underestimated Doge after all. He then heard the man _squeal_, and decided to defer any further judgement for a later date.

'You _must_ try Fortescue's ice cream, Harry. You'll never look back!' He gripped Harry's wrist with youthful strength, and bolted towards a large blue and cream-themed establishment. Several garden umbrellas were fixed above tables in front of the shop window. Sitting on one chair (as well as a stack of newspapers, Harry noted) was a tiny old wizard with a bushy, silver moustache cheerfully digging into a relatively massive bowl of ice cream in comparison to his size. The man knew Doge somehow, as he frantically waved his hand upon noticing the pair.

'Elphias!' he squeaked, 'By Jove, he's done it again! The man's a genius, you have to buy this!'

'Filius, old chap! How are you?' Doge wheezed back, leaning towards the man's bowl in fascination as they reached his table. 'My, it does look very appetizing... perhaps a test taste fir -'

'_No!' _the tiny man-made a small but swift gesture with his non-spoon hand, and the ice cream bowl suddenly flew two feet in the air, remaining surprisingly intact as Doge's head and index finger hit the table. 'I'd expect such behaviour from Horace, but you? Honestly Elphias, there's a box of spoons right here!'

'I suppose I may have been a tad piggish,' Doge said sheepishly, motioning Harry to take a seat. 'I haven't even eaten breakfast yet! Oh, where are my manners? Harry, this is Professor Flitwick. He's a Charms Master at Hogwarts, head of the department, in fact! Dabbles with the Artificing class too... Filius, Harry is James and Lily's son.'

'Oh my,' Flitwick breathed, adjusting his glasses as he peered at Harry. 'He certainly is a Potter. How do you do, Harry?'

'It's nice to meet you, sir,' Harry said politely, extending a hand that was vigorously shaken in turn. 'just trying to make heads and tails of everything, really.'

'He's just like Lily, you know, so inquisitive!' Doge said reverently, shaking his head.

Soon enough, they were served by a flossy-haired wizard that Harry assumed was Mr Fortescue, or Florean as Doge had dubbed him. Over copious amounts of Boom Berry-flavoured ice cream, he and Flitwick proceeded to regale Harry with tales of their own Hogwarts schooling.

'Now of course, Albus never was one to turn down sweets,' Doge said, almost bursting with mirth, 'so long story short, we got the Chocolate Frog boxes, and the end of the Squid's tentacle is still Vanished!' He shared a riotous laugh with Flitwick as Harry sampled the impossibly delicious treat before him, intrigued by the prospect of meeting this Giant Squid at his new school but not sure what to think of his soon-to-be guardian's views on animal rights. 'A born sorcerer, he was!'

'Professors?' Harry suddenly called, looking up from his ice cream. 'I just wanted to ask - you've both used a few terms to describe, well, people like us. Sorcerer, warlock, witch, wizard... Do they all mean the same thing? I wouldn't want to cause offence if not.'

'Some yes,' Flitwick replied, picking up two unused wooden spoons and presenting them to Harry, 'others not so much. For starters, witches and wizards are pretty much the same. You would simply call a female wizard a witch, and a male witch a wizard I've yet to come across a piece of magic that couldn't be cast by either sex.'

'I wouldn't recommend climbing the stairs to the girls' dormitories though, certain mortal peril,' Doge grumbled, looking away.

'Why would I want to do that, Professor?' Harry asked innocently, as Flitwick burst into a fit of giggles.

'Ah, the lecherous yearnings of a misspent youth,' he cried, wiping away a tear, 'but back on topic. The warlock, as Professor Doge may tell you in greater detail come your third year, was historically the licensed judge, jury and executioner in his local community. Nowadays, they simply preside as the judiciary arm of the Ministry. The earlier definition is still sometimes used to refer to duellists of distinguished skill.

'Now a sorcerer is one who casts spells using the age-old formula of motivation, gesture and incantation. All sorcerers are wizards, Mr Potter, but few wizards are capable of even the most basic sorcery without wands containing preset spells. Of course, you needn't worry. Hogwarts students are accepted on the premise that they have the potential to perform a range of magic, plus with your Augo Profile, at least according to Albus...'

'So, you're saying we have more magic? And, that test I took... I'm not going to explode, am I?' Harry asked hesitantly.

'Oh no, Mr Potter,' Flitwick chirped, 'you'd be surprised by how many times I've heard that from promising students who take the Profile. You see, magic doesn't have a volume or level, as such. It's a supernatural property that several species exhibit in many ways, but you don't have more or _less _magic than a Flobberworm in truth. Magic simply _is_, Mr Potter. It has arbitrarily, to our knowledge, chosen a few characteristics that appear to conform to the laws of physics, but we cannot quantify it. We can, however, determine how resonant or connected one is with their ability to use magic, and that goes for dragons, trolls, and many other creatures and beasts.

'The Augo Profile - named after Josef Augo, the father of the Auger Unit for magical resonance - examines how well you harness can this inherent property we share. It takes your intellect and personality traits into account, your body's experiences with magic and finally, how aware you are of the magic inside and around you. Creativity, reasoning and self-awareness are the holy trinity of what makes wizards powerful, collectively contributing to what magical scientists and philosophers alike refer to as _willpower. _Willpower, Mr Potter, is the heart of the wizard's relationship with magic, as solidarity is the same for the Goblin Nation, and so on.'

'Indeed,' Doge supplied as he finished the last scoop of his dessert, 'and to think that HF lot commissioned the 11/17 Committee to develop the test as anti Muggle-born propaganda. The fools! A wife of one of the Governors heads that group now. Isn't that right, Filius?'

'I wouldn't know,' the tiny man muttered, 'politics never has been my cup of tea, and what with the Ministry being full of these reactionary types, especially the Wizengamot, I gave up on remembering names a long time ago.'

'Well, who knows,' Doge said brightly laying hands on Harry's shoulders, who closed his eyes in frustration at being manhandled for the umpteenth time, 'our Harry just might change all of that someday. The forty-ninth Baron Potter, I can see it now...'

'So Professor,' Harry said quickly, fighting the urge to ask what a Baron was, 'I was hoping we might be able to get a start on the supplies list?'

'Ah, he's eager!' Doge wheezed. 'So, you want to explore on a solo mission! Not to worry, my boy, I'll get your books and equipment. All I need you to do is pick up a uniform and your wand. Now that'll be an experience!'

'So I'm definitely getting a wand? Doesn't the letter say you can choose -'

'Oh, don't worry about that,' Doge interrupted with a scoff, 'a wand will be your best friend, I guarantee, at least for what you'll be learning at Hogwarts!'

With that, the two bid their farewells to Flitwick, and Doge gave Harry instructions on how to find both his robes and wand before meeting him outside the courtyard for supper, though 'you'll know Ollivander's when you see it' was pretty much the only information he received about the only Hogwarts-approved wand shop in the Alley. _But with all the wizards around here, _Harry thought, _surely someone else can give me proper directions?_ Ignoring such concerns for the moment, Harry made his way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a cosy outfitter's shop on the other side of the street.

For all his misgivings earlier that day, Harry actually found wizarding attire to be rather comfortable. He reasoned that as he wouldn't be donning robes in Oakwood, there would be little to no embarrassment in wearing them at all, save being asked if he preferred his hose 'baggy or slim fit'. Madam Malkin, a squat witch of pleasant humour, was evidently twice the businesswoman as she was a seamstress, as Harry ended up leaving with an order containing a surplus of everyday wear, a whole five Galleons poorer for his trouble. Doge promised to pick everything up once it was ready, so Harry promptly left in search of his new wand.

It would turn out, as a young sales witch flogging Lizard Belts would tell him, that Ollivander's workshop was located on the other side of Diagon Alley. While Harry had no problems fending for himself, he still questioned this Dumbledore character's judgements in choosing a responsible proxy. Lost in thought as he navigated his way to the south side of the Alley, Harry suddenly found himself winded on the hard cobbled floor, his vision obscured by a mass of bushy chestnut-coloured hair.

'Oi, Hermione! Don't be like that!' a voice shouted from a distance. A weight lifted itself off the young wizard, and he tried to get back on his feet as quickly as possible. As he looked around to find who had floored him, he noticed a trio of red-headed boys sprinting towards him. A small arm promptly wrapped itself around Harry's neck as he felt something hard poke him in the side. _Damn, probably a wand, _he thought, deciding not to make any sudden moves. His captor must have been considerably shorter, as they had to arch his back towards them to keep him firmly in place among a slowly forming crowd.

'Don't bloody believe it... she's taken a hostage!' one of the red-headed boys groaned with a gobsmacked expression as they arrived at the scene. Harry's captor dug the wand into Harry's ribs, causing him to grunt in discomfort. Numerous cries along the lines of _'Someone call the Trolls!_' could be heard as the crowd grew larger.

'I will _not _go back with you. They can Obliviate me too for all I care!' a feminine voice shrieked behind his ear.

'Bah, it's a Mudblood stickin' a Mudblood,' a rather stout wizard jeered as he stomped through the crowd, 'nothin' to see here, lads and lasses!'

A considerable portion of the crowd murmured in agreement as they prepared to leave. With the road clearing up, Harry took his chance to reason with the young witch.

'Look lady, I can get us out of here if -'

'How,' she whispered harshly, 'when _I'm_ the one with the wand, hmm?'

'Look, I just need you to hold my hand - agh!' He grunted again as she pressed the wand even deeper into his abdomen. Harry was sure he felt a sharp sting that time. 'Not like that,' he spat, 'I just need you to trust me. Doesn't look like anyone else is on your side right now.'

They shared a few moments of tense silence, the crowd pretty much gone and the trio of boys standing helplessly, all their hopes of retrieving the girl seemingly abandoned. Eventually, Harry felt her arm slack, only to grip his left hand as she broke off into a sprint, dragging him in tow.

With the red-headed boys hot on their heels, Harry tightly shut his eyes, concentrating on the weight of the girl falling on top of him just minutes earlier. He knew this was risky; he'd never transported himself with another person, and he had no idea what would happen if it went wrong, but he had no space to ruminate over the consequences. His hearing and sense of touch faded quickly, signifying that he'd fostered a full connection with his power. He put all of his thought into moving somewhere dark_, _somewhere hidden_, _somewhere empty_, _but most importantly _here_...

His senses would return as quickly as they had left him. Feeling solid stone ground beneath his feet once more, Harry opened his eyes to relative darkness, only to receive a sharp slap immediately after. Cradling his cheek, Harry stalked off in anger towards a sliver of light which he assumed to lead back to the Alley, before a hand spun him around to give him a first look at his assailant's face.

'What in _blazes _were you thinking?' she hissed. From what he could glean in the poor lighting conditions of the area, the girl was about his age and indeed a few inches shorter than him, with dark brown eyes and two remarkably large front teeth. Upon realising how absurd the scene must have looked on the outside, Harry allowed himself a short laugh.

'I know, right?' he replied with a wry grin, ' Would've bumped into someone with my eyes closed like that!'

'Not that,' she muttered, her eyes narrowed, 'I meant your little Apparition stunt there! You could have killed us both!'

'Hey, I just saved your hide back there!' Harry shot back, his voice rising before he paused in thought. 'Well, I think. What _did _I just save you from?'

'Nothing really,' the girl grumbled, falling back onto a crate that leaned against one of the walls, 'though I don't really want _them _to Obliviate me, otherwise I can't get -' she stopped at Harry's questioning look. 'Oh. It's a memory wipe. You're Muggle-born too, I assume?'

'Er, no. My parents were a wizard and witch, but I found out about all of this a week ago,' he replied matter-of-factly, squatting down next to the girl. 'I'm Harry Potter. You're Hermione?'

'Yes,' she said boldly, '_Granger. _Hermione _Granger._ At least they let me keep that. Listen, Harry Potter. I hope for your sakes that you don't have anyone who isn't magic to particularly care about, because as of this week, you'll never see them again.'

'_What _did you -'

'Just shut up and listen!' she interjected, her eyes hard as steel. '_They_ are going to erase your existence from the Muggle world. _They _will tell you that it's for Muggles' own good as well as yours, that you're in danger staying there and so are your family. They stole my _parents_, Harry Potter. Ten months, one week and two days ago. Just be glad they can't do that to you... no offence meant.'

'You're mental.'

'Maybe I am, considering the circumstances,' Hermione snorted, 'but what's that got to do with anything? Which school are you going to attend, by the way?'

'Hogwarts,' Harry whispered, slightly unnerved by the witch's consistent sincerity.

'Mm. It's your birthday, correct?' Harry nodded. 'Yes, many happy returns. They're probably doing it today.'

'Right,' Harry said awkwardly, edging backwards, 'well I've got to find Ollivander's Wand Shop, memory wipes or otherwise. You wouldn't happen to know the way?'

Hermione gave him a baleful glare, pushing past him to squint at the sliver of daylight that faintly illuminated the alcove. After a moment or two, she turned back to the boy with a bored expression on her face.

'Right in front of you, if you'll believe me on that?' she said, crossing her arms.

'Thank you. I'll see you around, I guess?'

'Yes, at Hogwarts. See you there,' she said archly.

Giving the girl as wide a berth as possible, he was just about to start travelling down the narrow pathway before being stopped yet again.

'Harry?' He turned his head to look back at Hermione, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

'Happy birthday... have a good one.'

* * *

Harry anxiously approached the venerable shop before him, desperately trying to shake the events of the past ten minutes from his head. _Was she telling the truth? _The question plagued him relentlessly as he left the dark alcove, not daring to look back. How could she have lied; what reason would she have? Hermione was pretty distraught, he reckoned, which he felt laid even more credence to her case. However, his situation was quite different. There was no way they could wipe the memories of a whole orphanage, surely... Either way, the whole debacle warranted a long discussion with Professor Doge later on.

Yet again, Harry could feel the ambient magic of the plot before him as he edged closer. He suspected it even might have something to do with its age; just above the rickety old shop, a sign read '_Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C' , _and a solitary wand lay on a faded purple cushion behind the dusty window. Disregarding its modest appearance, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that his fate in this world would be significantly affected by whatever transpired here. After taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the worn door handle to meet with the wandmaker.

As he crossed the threshold, a tinkling bell was the only indication of his entry, his footsteps silent against the weathered mahogany floor. The store was tiny, even compared to the somewhat cramped plan of Madam Malkin's shop, though it was filled to the brim with boxes - all along the walls and what seemed like thousands perched on shelves - wand cases, Harry surmised. The lack of sound only contributed to the room's mystery; the floors, the walls, the counter and even the layers of dust seemed to tingle with power. He was about to open his mouth to announce his entry before he was beaten for the final time that day.

'A Potter,' a soft, deep voice spoke, echoing across the room. 'I've been waiting for you, it's been too long.'

Harry whirled around, trying to discern the direction of the voice's source. 'Hello?' he said, mostly in vain.

Suddenly, the boy spotted an old man sat on top of a spindly chair, right in front of him.

'Good afternoon, Mr Potter. It's a pleasure to finally have you here,' he said placidly, giant silvery eyes scrutinising him through glasses that certainly didn't fit his face.

'Forgive my rudeness, sir, but how do you know my name? How does _everyone _know my name? Harry asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.

'Almost all Potter men looked somewhat alike,' the old man said, slowly rising from his chair, 'as do many of the Bones women, most male Smiths and pretty much every Weasley. The vestiges of an old line; not necessarily pure, as one might define the word, but old nonetheless.'

'Oh,' came Harry's eloquent reply as his eyes searched the shop, 'so you're Mr Ollivander then, sir?'

'I am indeed Garrick Ollivander,' the man acknowledged with a graceful bow, 'and I am honoured to serve yet another Potter in their quest for a companion. I sold both your parents their wands, you know. Yes, your mother - you have _her_ eyes, actually - bonded with a willow wand. Ten inches, a lock from the mane of a Corsican Longhair, quite springy... well-suited for charmwork and enchanting. Your father, on the other hand, preferred a mahogany wood - eleven inches and Hebridean heartstring - pliable, had quite a bit more kick to it. Very good for transfiguration, I recall.'

Harry didn't know how to react; the only other thing he knew about his birth parents was the eventual fate. Fortunately, Ollivander didn't seem interested in pursuing that particular vein of conversation further as he proceeded to analyse the boy's hands.

'Hm... yes, you're a left-hander.'

'I, er, haven't been one for a while.' Harry was impressed; it had taken six years for Miss Meacham to all but force him to write with his right hand.

'Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr Potter. Whatever Dark wizards were thought to prefer in the past is neither here nor there. I'd kindly suggest using your naturally dominant hand for wandwork, however.'

Harry inclined his head, more than happy to do anything that might make casting magic easier. Out of the blue, Ollivander clapped his large, thin hands, and a number of measuring instruments zoomed across the room, revolving around the young wizard. Measuring tape scaled the span of his arms, his knees, wrists and even his forehead, while several rings and tiny bowl-shaped tools encircled his fingers, expanding and contracting as they ran the length of his extremities. All the while, Ollivander took notes with a piece of parchment and a feather, giving Harry a special insight into his unique brand of wandlore:

'Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter. I use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand. A righteous wand for a righteous wizard, a calculating wand for a calculating wizard. A zealous wand for a _zealous _wizard.'

Apparently finished with his observations, Ollivander snapped his fingers once more, and the assortment of measuring tools crumpled to the floor. Harry started picking up the various instruments, but soon discovered that the wandmaker wasn't interested in them at all, collecting several boxes from the shelves instead.

'Yes, this should be a good start... beechwood and Short-Snout heartstring, Mr Potter. Nine inches, nice and flexible. If you want to give that a wave...' he muttered, handing a pale wand to Harry, who felt rather foolish waving the stick for reasons unbeknownst to himself. Fortunately, Ollivander saved him too much embarrassment by snatching it away immediately, exchanging it for a smaller, darker one.

'Okay, maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy. Try -'

Harry did, to the immense displeasure of Ollivander who stole the wand back as swiftly as he had given it.

'Maybe not, then -' he murmured, fishing yet another wand out of it case, '- ebony and Steelhoof hair, eight-and-a-half inches, springy. Yes, give it a go!'

Minute after minute, wand after wand, Harry believed that Ollivander was no closer to finding whatever he was looking for. After what seemed like an hour, he was sure that the pile of tried and tested cases comprised half the shop's stock. As disheartened as Harry may have been, however, the old wandmaker got more excited by the second.

'Oh, this is a challenge - haven't had a fitting like this since the glory days! You trust me, Mr Potter, we'll find your perfect match yet! In fact, maybe this is the one - yes, an unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches, nice and supple. Let's have a look...'

The moment Harry grasped the wand, a sudden rush of warmth danced across his fingertips. Holding the wand aloft, he swished it downwards, and a violent flurry of gold and silver sparks shot out from the end of his wand, illuminating the already well-lit room.

'_Hah_ - I _knew _it was phoenix feather! Well done, Mr Potter, bravo!' the old man cried, clapping his hands wildly as he enjoyed the light show. 'Well, well... you're one eccentric wizard, for such a _very_ eccentric wand...'

'Sorry, Mr Ollivander?' Harry asked. 'What's _eccentric _about it?'

'It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, not the other way around. That one - _right_ there - contains a phoenix tail feather core. Very autonomous component, temperamental even - as is its donor - and generally works well with extroverted wand woods. Holly, however, is of a placid, soothing disposition, meant to cool the temper of a hot-blooded partner. Although, much untapped strength lies in the heart of an idealistic wielder. A versatile wand, to say the least. You'll accomplish great feats with it... its brother can attest to that. Just one thing, though.'

'Yes sir?' Harry said, his eyes fixated on the fair-shaded wand, still warm in his hand.

'A clever Muggle once proclaimed that "hell is full of good wishes and desires". It is not a crime to be wrong, Mr Potter. If we want to truly learn anything, you might say that it's in fact a necessity. Nevertheless, it does a world of good to embrace your shortcomings and admit poor judgements. Should you come to terms with that, Mr Potter, I foresee that your wand will be nothing short of unstoppable as long as it rests with you.'

'Right - thanks, Mr Ollivander,' Harry said weakly.

* * *

It was now, more than any other moment in the past week, that Harry felt the gravity of the expectations laid before him. His conversation with Hermione Granger had only contributed to a cocktail of confusion about his place in a world wholly unsympathetic to his ignorance. He didn't feel entitled; by his own admission, Harry was too prideful for any sort of special treatment. But he surely deserved an explanation concerning his surrogate family in all things but name.

After waiting in one of the Leaky Cauldron's booths for around a half-hour, Doge finally caught up with the young wizard as a large chest floated along behind him. He wore a side-splitting smile as he found Harry, and a large veiled dome he held bobbed up and down as he bustled over.

'Harry, my boy! Sorry I'm late,' he wheezed, setting the dome down on the ebony table. It wobbled slightly for a few seconds before settling down. 'I picked up your robes, plus a little birthday present on the way -'

'Oh, thanks Professor,' replied Harry, eyeing the veiled dome as it wobbled again, 'you didn't have to go to any trouble.'

'Bah! Nonsense,' cried Doge, 'It isn't every day that a wizard turns eleven, after all. Now, I'll go ask Tom about that cake!'

'Sir,' Harry said testily, fixing a warning glare at the elder wizard, 'that's appreciated, but no thanks. I did tell you that Holly made one.'

'Yes, we need to talk about that...'

'I would agree.'

Doge looked at the boy uneasily, slowly picking up the veiled dome from its place on the table. 'I've got a room prepared in your name, keys and all. If you'll follow me...'

Harry nodded curtly, not daring to soften his gaze in case Doge started feeling comfortable. He followed the old wizard upstairs, which led to an expansive crimson-carpeted corridor and a series of ebony doors, each numbered by a brass plaque. It didn't take long for them to reach the designated room, only walking past a half-dozen rows before Doge turned a key through one of the locks.

They entered a fairly spacious bedroom, furnished with a single bed and dressers, all presumably made from the same ebony wood that filled the tavern. A small stone fireplace occupied a space on the far side of the room, which Doge proceeded to light with a soft jab of his wand. With another elegant swish, he set the chest down on the floor and rested the veiled dome on top of the bed's fluffy maroon blanket. He walked the length of the floor to peer through a large window that cast deep oranges and blues of a dusky urban skyline over the dimly lit chamber.

'It's only temporary,' he mumbled, casually observing the non-magical scene outdoors as it gradually waned, 'we'll have The Crucible ready by the end of next year -'

'I'm going back to Oakwood,' Harry said firmly.

'Harry, come now!' the old wizard pleaded, his face contorting as if he were physically exhausted from the boy's stubborn attitude. 'Bogrod informed you of the circumstances. Your parents' will -'

'And when were _you _going to inform me about the Obliviating business?'

'Who -?' Doge started with a quizzical tone, before abruptly shutting up at Harry's stern features. Removing the fez atop his head, Doge began to wipe his brow as he took a seat on the single bed. 'I hope you don't mind me sitting here, getting old and all... look Harry, we had every intention of telling you -'

'What, before or after you did the dirty deed -'

'Now see here!' Doge said hotly, rising from his seated position to wave a crooked finger at the boy in front of him. Harry took a step back; he reasoned that while they both had wands, he had no idea how to use his. Upon seeing Harry's shocked expression, however, Doge seemed to calm down rather quickly. 'Apologies, my boy, I didn't mean to lose my temper... you have to understand, we've just put a lot on the line for you. If we were to get caught, oh my...'

'What have you done, sir?' Harry asked, his voice trembling.

'We did it for you, Harry. I saw how much you loved those Muggles, and how much they loved _you. _That young woman, Holly, she thought the world of you, my boy. Yes, the Ministry usually send Obliviators round, and yes, they usually wipe all traces of your existence or implant memories that you died in a horrific accident for sheer kicks... I'm telling you like it is!' he wheezed at Harry's gasp of revulsion, 'But we pulled some strings. Dumbledore's got friends on the inside - he bleeding well _is _on the inside - and they've just made it so that your home thinks you've gone to a boarding school indefinitely until further notice. See? Hardly any different from the truth. Though I must confess, you may not see them for a very long time.'

Harry stared blankly at the tired old man, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

'Thank you, Professor -' he whispered, his voice quavering, '- I just wish you'd mentioned something earlier...'

Doge walked over to the young wizard, gently resting a hand on his shoulder.

'I agree, my boy. My, there were better people for this job... I am glad to have met you, of course.'

'Likewise, sir,' Harry replied thickly, looking down at the floor to hide his insincerity. Doge took the moment to return to the veiled dome, placing a hand over the apex.

'I wanted this to be a happy surprise. I suppose that was foolish of me, but consider it a peace-offering, of sorts. I'm afraid that none of us have the power to truly make it up to you, but maybe this will go some way...' He discarded the navy veil, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful snowy owl encased within a golden cage. Harry ran over to examine the bird.

'Professor, seriously? How did it breathe -'

'Muting and Ventilation Charms, Harry,' Doge said with a chuckle, 'a spy's best friends. Right - your gear is all safe within the trunk. We can re-key it to your wand tonight or whenever before school. I'll go get the cake I left with Tom. The same one your young lady made... least I could do...'

And with that, the ancient wizard hobbled out of the room, gently closing the door behind him. Left only with his thoughts and an especially nosy owl (that kept poking him with its beak through the gilded cage), Harry found himself even more confused than he was before their short-lived argument.

It appeared that Hermione was telling the truth, but for whatever reason, Doge and his associates were willing to risk reprimands for his peace of mind. That being said, Harry still felt conflicted; he'd been whisked away from one world to another in the space of a week, on the orders of a guardian he still had yet to meet. Even if it was in his best interests, Harry couldn't help but feel kidnapped.

While he certainly looked forward to learning how to use his magic properly, he had to find a way back to Oakwood as soon as possible. He couldn't let Greg, Phil or even Alice think that he abandoned them for greener pastures. The thought of his friends sent Harry onto another interesting train of speculation, though it was soon forgotten as the owl nipped him fiercely on the arm.

'Hey!' he cried sharply, swatting the air in the general direction of the cage. The owl, who didn't seem to think it was doing anything wrong, looked almost affronted. Harry rubbed the ruddy patch of skin where he'd been bitten, narrowing his eyes at the bird. 'I bet they've gone and bugged you and all,' he muttered. 'Could've sworn they had toads on the list... at least one of those wouldn't have nipped me one.'

* * *

**A/N: **As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

Man, was that a mouthful. I read the thing out loud, by the way. It was a bit of a toughie, and really feels all over the place. But I did what I could, and can only hope to improve as we go along! A number of things have been hinted and/or in this chapter, and all I really should be saying right now is that nothing was done by halves. It is, to my knowledge, completely purposeful. Though you do get those little nuggets of fridge brilliance when you're lucky... boy, do I wish my fridge had stuff in it right now...

Just to be clear, by the way. Yes - this story is riddled with clichés. They're guilty pleasures; we all have 'em, though I'm trying (to an extent) to rein it all in as much as possible. However, there's one common component of your garden-variety fic that many detest, and that's bashing. It's counter-productive and leaves a bad taste in my mouth, so don't expect to see it here. Anyway, thanks for reading! :D


	5. Neville Rides The Train

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **Harry pulls a bird, some children talk to their first Muggle, and a misunderstood beast comes to the rescue.

**Author's note: **Hello! Happy Easter to all those who celebrate it (I don't any more and feel kinda bad about eating your fish and chocolate, so sorry about that...) Here we are with another one. I'd like to thank everyone that has reviewed so far, including Sir Doge (pretty sure that's my brother, the weirdo) - it's a great motivator. I'd like to stress that constructive criticism is highly valued and appreciated here. While this is a bit of fun, I'm trying to improve my storytelling ability for several reasons, and am immensely grateful for any help people can offer. Flames are welcome too because a consensus is boring. Please PM if there's anything you'd like to know about the AU (that isn't massively plot-breaking of course), or for any other reason. It's nice to talk! :)

* * *

**Chapter Five – Neville Rides The Train**

Not for the first time that past month, or even in the past week, Harry was ambivalent about the recent turn of events in his relatively mundane life so far. During the past four weeks, he'd enjoyed an unprecedented amount of freedom, and he was sure to milk it for all it was worth... without completely milking his own net worth dry, of course. He'd decided on purchasing a subscription to _Transfiguration Today, _marketed as the 'twelve-time winner of the Corrigan Prize for Academic Journalism', in an effort to understand the basics of his family's traditional livelihood. Harry was unsure of exactly when he'd be able to fully comprehend the periodical, however. In any case, he was sure that his new recreational text, _Curses and Counter-Curses _by a Professor Vindictus Viridian, would be a wise extra-curricular investment after being accosted upon his first visit to the Alley. He couldn't wait to try the Jelly-Legs Jinx, especially if the animated representations were as accurate as the text advertised.

Having spent the last four years of primary school in a state of perpetual boredom, Harry found his love of discovery rekindled within the ink of his new textbooks. While he'd technically been performing magic for years, exactly how and why the phenomenon worked eluded him. He found the principles of a few processes, including simple transformation and surface interaction as well as single-layer synthesis (from his Sorcery and Potioneering set texts respectively) fairly easy to grasp; his library sessions spent delving into secondary-level subjects like physics and chemistry (and even sculpture, strangely enough) aided him in finding at least some common ground with a few items on the syllabus. Of course, magical theory followed its own rules and framework, and as much as he enjoyed reading, Harry had to admit that he found the occasionally whimsical rulings within the books more than a little challenging to comprehend at times.

While it was also unfortunate that he wasn't allowed to use his wand outside of school for at least the next two years (Doge mentioned a 'Trace' and he wasn't daring enough to call the man's bluff), Harry already felt the effects of being immersed in magic. He was still very much aware of the Alley's ambient power, although it was no longer accompanied by near-complete sedation, which he was more than thankful for. He'd wander the market stalls during the day and peruse his textbooks by night; probably not a wise decision however as his sleeping patterns became increasingly erratic. Nevertheless, his new (and yet still unnamed) owl proved to be the perfect alarm clock.

'_Krehh- ku__rp._'

'...bugger off...'

'_Keh-krrrp, krehhh-rk?'_

'It's not even bright yet,' Harry rasped, wrapping an arm around his face in a feeble attempt to block the rays of sunlight that burned through the suite's window.

Apparently the snowy owl did not appreciate bare-faced lies, as Harry received a flurry of swipes from impressively sharp talons in response.

'Agh! Fine, I'm up!' he yelled, glaring at the bird before jumping out of the single bed. Visibly satisfied, the owl swooped over to Harry's bedside table to gently preen its feathers. Harry vigorously rubbed his eyes, and scanned the room through squinted eyes in search of his spectacles. He clumsily snatched the pair that also happened to occupy the bedside table, accidentally swatting his owl in the process.

'_Kreh—rk__!_'

'Oh, blow it out your backside,' Harry snapped, slamming the glasses on to his face as he made his way to the window.

Despite being mere feet away, Muggle London (as Harry had already come to describe it) seemed like a distant memory. The scene of a bustling Charing Cross was his sole piece of primary evidence that the world he'd lived in, until recently, still existed without him. He had yet to bump into Hermione Granger again, and likewise any Muggle-born children in general. A slight relief, Harry would reluctantly admit, since such a meeting would only remind him of the special treatment he received courtesy of the mysterious Sir Albus, however minor it may have been. Turning his back on the window to cease any unwanted reminders of last month's events, Harry called out to the large white owl resting on his table.

'So, er, how's it going?' he asked, immediately feeling stupid as the owl gave him a blank stare. 'Well, I suppose you've gone long enough without a name... Professor Doge said you were a girl, didn't he? I read somewhere that you're supposed to have black feathers too, though -' the owl turned her head on its side, amber eyes flashing warningly, '- no, I'm not doubting you! Never mind, let me just find a book or something.'

Harry tapped his wand against the trunk's lock, which sprang open with a click. Rummaging through its contents, he pulled out his copy of _The Worldly Witch _and plopped back on the bed.

'Okey-doke, let's see here... Semiramis sounds cool, what do you think of that?' Following another blank stare, Harry continued, 'Yeah, I _totally _thought that one was stupid, just wanted to test you... Venus? I mean, you are pretty, so -' the owl promptly turned away, leaving Harry utterly flummoxed as to how she could have taken offence. He sighed, putting down the book and leaned closer to the bird.

'Look, I know the past month hasn't been ideal, and I haven't been the nicest room-mate,' the owl gave a sharp but quiet '_k__ek'_, 'but I did buy you those gourmet treats after all. We just got off on the wrong foot, didn't we?'

The snowy owl shuffled around to look at the young wizard, giving him a soft bark.

'I don't know if you actually understand me, but if you can, then I want you to know that I'd love to be your friend. But it won't be easy if you don't have a name, right?'

He could have sworn the owl nodded in agreement.

'Good to know we agree on something, then!' Harry said brightly, gently stroking her head after she affectionately nipped at his finger.

With what Harry believed was the owl's full participation, it only took a few more minutes to find a name from the book on wizarding culture. 'Hedwig... you like it?' Harry received a soft '_prek prek' _in response, 'You do look like a Hedwig. She was a poet, it says... kinda ties in with you being so dramatic, I reckon,' he said, sniggering as the newly named Hedwig ruffled her feathers in annoyance.

The sound of frantic knuckles rapping at the door brought their attention to the other side of the room.

'Who is it?' Harry asked as he made his way to the door.

'It's Elphias! We have to get a move on, my boy!'

As he recalled the date, Harry cursed, chucking _The Worldly Witch _back into his trunk before fishing out a set of Muggle clothes for the journey to the station.

'One sec, Professor! Have you got my ticket?' Harry called chucking treats across the room to coax Hedwig back into her cage.

'Yes Harry, don't worry about that, let's just try to get there on time!' Taking one last, long look at the scene of Charing Cross before him, Harry grabbed his clothes as he lunged into the bathroom.

Doge's panic and urgency soon proved unfounded; the ride to King's Cross was a quick one at the very least. They had avoided the rush hour by a fair margin, and only one change on the half-empty Underground seemed to lighten Doge's spirits somewhat. Of course, being a wizard born and bred meant that he hardly noticed the stares he and Harry received as they carried Hedwig around in her gilded cage. Harry, although, _did _notice, and wondered how wizards stayed so concealed, however oblivious they happened to be.

They arrived at the station with a half-hour to spare, and Harry went straight to work in locating the elusive Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. He'd passed through the station on a number of occasions for school trips and even with the orphanage; he'd never encountered anything out of the ordinary, as far as Central London went.

'Oh, it does bring back memories, being in this station,' Doge said wistfully as they meandered past a crowd of tourists.

'Where is it, sir?'

'Right... there,' he finally announced, pointing a finger towards the barrier separating Platforms Nine and Ten. Hedwig took a moment to flap her wings in apparent excitement, though Harry didn't follow.

'Now you'll want to be quick about it, I'll keep watch so that you -'

'Quick about what, sir?' Harry asked, perplexed. Doge looked at the ceiling, placing a hand on his forehead.

'I'm no good at this,' he moaned, closing his eyes, 'here I am, ruining your first Run of all things!'

Harry looked closer at the barrier. Contrary to the other magical pathway he'd experienced in Diagon Alley, there wasn't the slightest sign of what lay beyond. Though he had discovered nothing, he did have an inkling of what Doge was referring to.

'That _isn't _solid, is it sir?'

'Not to _us, _it isn't,' Doge proudly said, puffing out his chest, 'I know it's a little daunting -'

'A _little?_'

'- but that's why we call it a Run. Go through at a steady pace, and it'll pass over you as if it were water. You'll be a natural!'

Wholly unconvinced, Harry reluctantly positioned his station trolley in line with the barrier.

'Now, my boy! Strike while the iron's hot!'

Harry tightly shut his eyes and gritted his teeth as he broke into a full stampede, expecting a painful collision. He wasn't sure how long he'd been running, but a bark from Hedwig caused him to snap back into focus.

The familiar view of King's Cross was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a single tunnel platform populated by numerous witcbes and wizards, all scrambling around under a wrought iron archway bearing the words '_PLATFORM NINE-AND-THREE-QUARTERS_'. A bright red steam locomotive was stationed in the tunnel, with '_HOGWARTS EXPRESS' _emblazoned in golden lettering across the smokebox. Children with trunks and a variety of pets were waved off by their families, while others clung fiercely to the hems of their guardians' robes. Harry turned back, only to be greeted by an expansive brick wall with no exit in sight. His eyes widened as a grinning Doge pranced through the wall, which acted like a rippling, permeable membrane on contact.

'Ah! Another year, another journey!' he said beaming, though his smile did fade after a while. 'Shame I won't be going, though.'

'Sir?'

'Oh,' Doge mumbled at Harry's puzzled expression, 'no, Harry, it's generally just for students. I'll still get there before you though, don't you worry!'

'How -' Harry started, before Doge tapped his nose with a wink.

'Have a read, I'm sure you'll find something.'

Doge helped Harry onto the train by levitating both Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage. Once all the items were safely on board, Harry walked him back to the train doors.

'Thanks for your help, sir,' Harry said loudly, to hear himself over the engine.

'Not at all, my boy,' Doge boomed in response, waving as he walked away, his form gradually obscured by plumes of smoke, 'least I could do after - well - see you at the castle!'

'Castle?' Harry asked, though Doge was already gone.

With another twenty minutes before the train would depart, Harry heaved his luggage across the carriage, thankful that he was probably spoilt for choice of compartments. Swinging open the first door he'd laid eyes on, Harry walked in on an excited discussion between two boys approximately his age.

**'**We've been through this, Longbottom,' the first boy drawled, pinching his brow before running his hand through platinum-blond hair almost painfully slicked back, 'Dolohov is a beast! He's technically gifted, he has a library of tricks, his pace is through the _roof_ -'

'Which you've said about Jacobs, about Agyeman, about Romero, and all in the same season!' the other boy breathed in exasperation. He was slightly shorter; round-faced with longer, darker blond hair and pink cheeks. He fell back into a red leather-cushioned seat and tittered to himself. 'You're a glory hound, Draco, go back to Quidditch.'

'Yeah, well -' the boy named Draco stopped upon spotting Harry, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly. 'Hullo.'

'Morning,' Harry said, wheeling his trunk through and resting the cage on top before shutting the door behind him.

'You're awfully Muggle,' Draco replied tonelessly, peering back as if he were sizing Harry up.

'What? Oh,' Harry whispered, recognizing that both Draco and Neville were dressed in pristine robes and shirts, a stark contrast to his faded T-shirt and jeans. Their appearances seemed to confirm the goblin teller's words on social classes a month ago. 'Muggle-raised, yes. Harry Potter's the name.'

'Alright, Harry,' Neville greeted jovially, jumping out of his seat and pumping Harry's hand. 'I'm Neville, great to meet you. My Gran mentions the Potters all the time. Son of James?'

'Oh, we're related then,' Draco said airily, joining Neville in shaking Harry's hand, albeit limply, 'Same great or great-great grandfather, depends on which line you're tracing.'

'Right,' Harry said blankly, not sure if he was supposed to be delighted with the news. 'Sorry for interrupting, I -'

'No worries,' Neville said laughing, clapping him on the back, 'doesn't know what he's talking about, anyway. You follow GC? Well, 'course you would.'

'Er -'

'Must be one of the squeamish types,' Draco said stuffily, slumping back into his seat, 'wouldn't recognize a sport of kings if he played one.'

'You're an idiot,' scoffed Neville, 'you _know _his dad was on Level One in the seventies!'

'My dad?' Harry asked a bit more loudly than he meant to, his interest piqued at the mention of his father.

'Yeah - oh, right,' Neville responded, looking at Harry with a sympathetic expression, 'you've only just come back.'

He helped Harry load his belongings onto the luggage rack, ignoring Draco's protests of 'Let the elves do it' as Harry introduced Hedwig to a new friend.

'That's a cool toad you've got there,' Harry muttered distractedly, his eyes glazed over.

'Trevor _is _one of a kind,' Neville said proudly as the boys took their seats next to Draco on the window side of the compartment.

'So you said my dad played sports?'

'Not just any sport,' Draco spoke slowly in an ominous tone, placing his fingers firmly on the dining table as he reached forward, '_the _sport, Potter. Duelling on the Grand Circuit.'

'It's a big deal,' Neville supplied, whipping out his wand, 'wizard on wizard - or witch of course - combat, wands only. They banned fists a couple centuries back. Pretty much a toff's game now -'

'A refined man's game,' Draco interrupted rolling his eyes, 'but yes, your father was very good. The "Barmy Baron", they called him. Dropped out on a record high from the second-highest bracket around ten years ago, before, well...'

The compartment was uncomfortably silent for a moment.

'Draco has a habit of speaking out of turn,' Neville said pointedly, 'he does the same thing with my parents, but I don't think that's a mistake.' The two boys shared a dark chuckle as Draco squirmed a little, appearing even more uncomfortable about the subject.

As the train started moving, sunlight blazing through the window once it left the tunnel, Draco and Neville introduced Harry to the basics of duelling. Unsurprisingly, there were points of contention between the two on almost every rule.

'So you can't Transfigure on a sand platform - too much risk you've used the pebbles as well, transformation or no -'

'Dolohov conjured a snake at the Stonehenge Conference.'

'Balls he did, that was a Phantasm Curse!'

'Still conjured it -'

'What does "Phantasm" _mean_ to you, Draco?'

Sensing yet another grand schism of the duelling schools, Harry reached for his trunk to pluck out the August edition of _Transfiguration Today. _He could barely understand some of it, but it'd at least be more riveting than listening to Draco and Neville, who were nice (well, only Neville for the most part), but seemingly had the potential to spend twenty years deconstructing the Nerve Scare of the Fifties.

'See, look at Harry,' Neville argued, 'there are other things to life, you know. Theoretical Transfiguration, Harry? That's... deep.'

'It is,' Harry mused, looking up from the magazine, 'brain-frying, but it's interesting at the very least. You into it as well?'

'Not so much, but I do appreciate the harder sciences, unlike some,' Neville replied with a sniff as Draco raised an eyebrow, 'for me it's Herbology. Can't wait to visit the greenhouses at Hogwarts! I heard they've got seven on the castle grounds -'

'So it is a castle, then?'

'What _did _the Muggles do to you?' Draco squawked, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 'Of course it's a castle. Where else would they teach magic to hundreds of children?'

'Redmoor,' Neville dead-panned. The two blond boys shared a look before their raucous laughter filled the compartment.

Upon spotting Harry's confused expression, Draco explained the joke. 'Redmoor is one of those newer schools. Pro-Muggle, says my cousin, so they like teaching "progressive" subjects like Technomancy and Defence Against the Dark Arts, whatever _that _is.'

'Muggles are alright,' Neville started, giving Draco a warning glare before turning back to Harry, 'but _Technomancy_? That's an insult, it's like saying wizards can't build things!' Reminiscing over his experience of Diagon Alley, Harry struggled to bite his tongue at Neville's gripe. Luckily, he was saved by a timely quip from Draco.

'So Potter,' he said mirthfully, glancing at Neville, 'Longbottom here says that Muggles can fly. I bet him seven Sickles it's rubbish.'

'They can,' Harry replied simply, 'using a vehicle called an aeroplane. It needs loads of fuel, but they can fly across continents. You've never been to an airport, then?'

'A _what?_'

'Ha! Fork over, Malfoy,' the round-faced boy jeered, holding out a hand expectantly.

'Pauper,' Draco spat, 'they still need a machine to do it!'

'You didn't specify, matey. Besides, it's not like we can do it without brooms,' Neville countered, raising his hands up in the air before resting them behind his head.

Draco didn't say anything for a while, looking up at the ceiling in thought.

'I saw Greengrass do it once,' he finally said, looking very pleased with his rebuttal.

'You've also sworn that the Greengrasses eat ambrosia for breakfast,' Neville sighed.

'They _do_!'

'Who's Greengrass?' Harry asked.

'_Daphne _Greengrass is Draco's "third cousin", if you catch my drift,' Neville said, grinning.

'Not really,' he replied, confused by Draco's rapidly reddening complexion. _Did Neville insult his family?_

'Troll spawn,' Draco growled, apparently attempting to glare his friend into non-existence.

* * *

The next several hours were fairly uneventful; Draco and Neville compared their respective holiday trips while Harry carried on reading. He noticed that Neville didn't mention his own parents again, though he did refer back to his grandmother quite often. _Perhaps the Longbottoms shared the Potters' fate, _Harry wondered, though he made an effort to steer away from that train of thought. True to his earlier observations, both boys were indeed wealthy: when a witch with a tea trolley passed by the compartment, the trio bought the whole selection of treats between them without blinking.

'Hey, Draco. _Draco,_' Neville called to the pale boy, who was intimately preoccupied with his third Caramel Crabapple.

'Ah - yehlp?' he eventually responded, hurling a slimy apple core out of the window.

'Charming. Found us a _yellow _one by the way,' Neville said darkly, holding up a sickly yellow bean-shaped sweet.

'Well yes, they're Every Fla - oh.'

'What's all this then?' Harry inquired, happy to take a break from his crash course in dragon waste vanishment.

'Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans,' Neville recited softly, holding the sweet up in the air as if to consecrate it, 'and this one's a legend. Just the right shade of mustard yellow dotted with lime freckles... Draco swears it's pee-flavored, but I have no idea how he'd know that -'

'Shut up!' Draco snapped before calming himself down. 'Of course, we need a volunteer. I ate it the time before last -'

'- because you lost a bet -'

'That means nothing!' he retorted. 'Look, _someone _has to do it. Now Potter,' he said firmly, turning to Harry, 'we all have to take one for the team at some point.'

'I haven't even joined,' Harry murmured, swiftly retreating to his mind-boggling magazine. Draco was about to shout something back, though he was interrupted by a knock at the compartment door.

'It's open,' Neville clamored, his voice chipper, and in Harry's opinion was likely happy to have another student around to witness Draco's imminent plight.

The door opened to reveal a tall black boy with slanted eyes and high cheekbones, already dressed in full school uniform. A smirk crossed his lips as he regarded the scene before him.

'So,' he asked silkily, 'whose turn is it this time?'

'Alright Blaise,' Neville greeted the boy cheerfully, 'Draco here's gonna take the fall for us. Aren't you, matey?'

'I - wha - _you,_' Draco blustered, all eyes on him.

'_So_ good with words, you are,' Blaise half-sang, his smirk widening into a full grin. He snaked an arm around the pale boy's shoulders as he sat down, 'and speaking of eloquence, where _are_ your lackeys at if you don't mind me asking?'

'Shove off, Zabini,' Draco spat, yanking the sickly yellow bean out of Neville's hand to examine it, 'shove right off. But if you must know, Crabbe didn't get in. His parents won his appeal for Mage Anglesey's, though. As for Goyle...'

'Yes?'

'He's being..._ homeschooled,' _he whispered with a slight tremor.

The three boys' faces darkened, leaving Harry to peer over his magazine cover in amusement. Blaise happened to notice this before the other two, and extended a hand in greeting.

'Blaise Zabini,' he said cordially, smiling as the bespectacled boy shook his hand, 'I assume you're new to all of this?'

'You'd assume correct. I'm Harry Potter,' Harry said, smiling in return.

'As in "Barmy Baron" Potter?' Harry nodded. 'Ah yes, I read about you in the paper.'

'You read the _paper?_' Draco snorted.

'Yes, as it happens,' Blaise replied, nose upturned before levelling his eyes at Harry. 'So, the Boy of Tomorrow... is it true that you can make your eyes glow on cue? I've always wanted to do that...'

'Where on _earth _did you hear -' started Harry, though he was cut off by Draco.

'Wait, _that's _you? Father's been raving on about it for weeks! You got over seventy on the Profile, didn't you?'

'Well yes, but -'

'But _nothing,_' Neville spouted, 'that's something only Sir Albus could lay claim to. The better schools of the Union require a forty-eight as an entry requirement, and that's like the top five per cent of wizards globally. You can see why it's a shock, Harry.'

'Well it is to me too,' Harry replied, 'but I haven't even used my wand yet. I don't know any real magic!'

'Doesn't matter,' Blaise said quickly, waving him off, 'the Profile assesses your personality or affinity and different types of intelligence or something, don't quote me on that, though. Either way, the number's meant to show the range of magic you can do unaided, and how well. What are your strengths, anyway?'

'Don't know, I didn't get to read it. Doge pretty much sang the number and packed it away.'

'Oh right,' Blaise replied, 'well, I got a fifty-five. Suited for Artificing, which makes sense. It is what my father did for a living.'

'Which one?' Draco sniggered, before grunting in pain as he was kicked under the table.

'I hadn't forgotten, you know,' said Neville, a devious grin spread across his features, 'go on Draco, eat it!'

He began to chant the order, his voice rising as he repeated himself. Blaise soon joined Neville in goading Draco to eat the infamous yellow Every Flavour Bean, while Harry looked on in morbid fascination. His curiosity would not be satisfied, however, as the compartment door swung open yet again. An older, dark-haired girl with cruel-looking hazel eyes stepped through, glaring at the lot of them. A shining silver badge was pinned to the chest of her school robes.

'Prissy?' Draco squealed, 'I'm _saved_!'

'That's Prefect Yaxley to you,' she said in a nasally voice, 'cousin or otherwise. Zabini! What did I send you in here for? Why aren't they dressed yet?'

'Isn't that your job as Prefect?' Neville asked cheekily, though a glance from the girl made him gulp soon after.

'I want my money back,' she spat, her head sharply swivelling back to Blaise, who didn't hesitate in fishing out a Galleon from his pockets to slam it into the Prefect's hand. Harry found himself surprised by the frivolous exchange of such a sum, but decided against commenting for the moment.

'You three had better be ready in the next two minutes,' she snarled as she made to leave the compartment, 'or I might have to use the Shrivelling Hex I learned over the summer. Clear?'

Draco and Neville scrambled over to the luggage rack to change while Blaise cackled with delight. Harry, who didn't wish to be on the receiving end of the girl's experiments, quickly followed suit.

It wasn't much later when the Express approached the village of Hogsmeade, their view from the compartment window gradually dimming as the sun set behind the hilly forests. A voice echoed through the train, informing them that they would be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes.

'Can't wait to get Sorted,' Neville said brightly, rubbing his hands together. Harry made a face.

'Is there anything you do know, Potter?' asked Draco, tittering as he glanced at Blaise who remained silent. 'Hogwarts has a House system. You know, house points and camaraderie and all that?'

'Oh yes,' Harry said, finally comprehending, 'our Houses at my old school were named after saints.'

'Aw, how cute,' Draco gushed before rolling his eyes, 'and how _Muggle._ Ours are named after the founders of our school, and they were the greatest witches and wizards to ever live. Their names were Slyth -'

'We have reached our destination,' the voice echoed again, 'all please disembark. We have arrived at Hogsmeade Station, all please disembark - mind the gap between the platform and train doors. Please leave your luggage, it will be taken to the castle separately. Thank you for travelling on the Hogwarts Express.'

'Well, that's our cue,' Neville said with purpose, standing up straight. As he looked around, Harry noticed that Draco and Blaise looked extremely uncomfortable in comparison. As they exited the compartment, they landed on a tiny dark platform; the only inhabitants in sight were other dark-robed children, the white lantern hanging from the shelter roof casting a deathly pallor over their faces.

'Is this where we get Sorted? What happens to us?' Harry whispered to Neville.

'Dunno, it's a school secret,' Neville breathed back, 'though it's meant to be some kind of test.'

'Maybe this is the -'

'Firs' years, firs' years over here!' a gruff voice boomed from a distance, as a yellowing lamp revealed the largest (and hairiest) man Harry had ever seen.

'He's a giant,' Harry gasped.

'He actually might be,' Neville shot back harshly as they walked towards the huge man, 'don't scream about it though, are you _trying _to get us killed?'

'Sorry,' Harry mouthed an insincere apology as they moved into a line of children leading up to a narrow, even darker path. For the next few minutes, the yellow lamp and the bass-level plodding of the giant man's boots were a makeshift compass, their invisible surroundings betraying nothing.

Eventually, they would hear a fluid sound that occasionally bubbled, dunked and rippled. _Water, _Harry surmised, _maybe __we have to pull a sword from a_ _spring? _As his vision adjusted, he could see patterns of reflected light dancing over the rippling surface ahead.

'Oh, must be the Lake,' Neville said in realisation, 'my Gran said that it swallows up disobedient children, but I'm not sure about that one.'

Urban legend or not, it did little to curb Harry's emerging nerves. The question of why he hadn't accepted the offer from Middlesex Oratory instead started to plague his mind, until he quashed his worst fears as nonsense. _They surely wouldn't risk the lives of students, _he reassured himself. He looked to the heavens instead, and was greeted with a most wondrous sight. There, stood tall and proud, was the silhouette of a magnificent castle with its many towers and turrets, some even threatening to perforate the sparkling tapestry displaying the moon and stars. As far away as it was, Harry felt its attraction and knew beyond anything else: _that is Hogwarts - _that _is magic._

'Four to a boat! No more'n four!' ordered the giant man as he walked the length of the shore, which was surrounded by a fleet of tiny wooden boats.

'Early bird, Harry! Let's go!' Neville called, dragging Harry by the sleeve of his robe as he ran over to a boat on the far left. As they slowly climbed in, a high, haughty voice caught their attention.

'Ladies first, Longbottom,' it stated plainly, a tiny hand pushing past both boys as the front of the boat was suddenly occupied, 'come on, Pansy, hurry up now!' After he'd gotten his other leg in, Harry was clouted by a face-full of fabric as the front half of the boat was filled.

'Hello Daphne, Pansy,' Neville greeted cordially. The girls turned back to acknowledge him, their faces faintly illuminated by the sky. The one in front of him, Pansy he assumed, was hard-faced, her forehead covered by a flawless fringe. The girl behind her, Daphne, wore her hair in shoulder-length curls. Her eyes fluttered a little as he introduced himself.

'So you're Draco's third cousin?' he inquired. The girl's mouth dropped as Neville giggled in the background.

'He's the one I read about, Pansy,' she said softly, not taking her eyes off of him as Hagrid bellowed, 'Everyone in? Alright - _Forward!'_

As the fleet of boats began to glide unaided across the lake, Harry felt a few taps on his shoulder andlooked back to find a grinning Neville.

'Watch out, Harry,' he whispered, 'that one's as cold as ice. Don't answer any of her questions if you want to sleep easy tonight.'

Harry nodded lamely, though decided to take the advice on board anyway. He found it harder to follow as Daphne treated them to a tirade about Muggle-born students on the train journey. He secretly wondered if he could get away with pushing her overboard as they met a vast, pitch-black tunnel obscured by a curtain of ivy that hung over the cliff face.

'It was insufferable, really. That incessant moaning, "oh woe is me, they stole my family"! The bare-faced ungratefulness... like we didn't do them a favour. You heard that Granger girl, Pansy?'

'Um, which one?' the other girl asked quietly.

'Oh, you remember. Plain, buck teeth, whiny. Textbook Mudbl -'

'Hey, do you smell that?' Harry interrupted, sniffing. He was decidedly not in the mood to hear the girl's dismissal of Hermione's (or his own) situation.

'It's a lake, Potter,' she said simply.

'No, it's not the Lake, it's right here, just in front of us I think. You smell it, Neville?'

'Absolutely putrid,' Neville concurred. Harry couldn't be more grateful. 'Like the back-end of a -'

'Just _what _are you insinuating? I smell nothing,' Daphne huffed, her head whirling around for a second to scrutinise the boys.

'I'm not implying anything,' said Harry, 'though your defensive response does speak volumes, Daphne.'

'How dare you!' Pansy snarled in support of the other girl, 'Have you no respect for the fairer sex?'

'Whether I do or not, that odor is anything but fair -'

'You_ - _you _arse, _Potter!' Daphne hissed as she turned back once again, spittle flying into Harry's face.

'Wow,' Harry chuckled, 'a little pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say?' He received a wrathful growl in response. Satisfied, he glanced back at Neville, who was trying his best to contain an impending fit of giggles as the boat sped up.

'I find myself questioning your judgement, Neville,' he said evenly as the blond boy's eyes widened, 'she's positively lukewarm at most.'

Harry spoke too loudly; Daphne had apparently endured enough and lunged for the boy, though she ended up rolling out of the vessel as she tripped over a startled Pansy. Harry cursed - he would have called out to the giant man but he was too far away to be of any use. Instead, he threw off his outer robe, wrapping it around his wrist and hurling it overboard to a flailing Daphne.

'You two, grab my waist!' he called to a panicking Neville and Pansy.

'Wha -'

'Just do it!'

As the two children anchored him, Harry fed the outer robe to the drowning girl's outstretched hands. She gripped it, though her eyes shot wide open as a thick dark coil enveloped her own waist, snagging her and the garment far away... and towards the ceiling of the tunnel.

'Daphne!' Pansy shrieked, burying her face in her hands.

Soon after, the fleet of boats crashed into a sea of pebbles. As Harry, Neville and Pansy scrambled out of the rickety vessel and onto what looked like an underground harbour, a crowd of worried-looking children formed, headed by the giant man himself. He was furious to say the least.

'Wha's wrong wi' yeh?' he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the trio. A boy started weeping in the background; whether he was mourning Daphne, scared by the hairy giant or both was uncertain. 'Tryna' make us late fer the feast or summat?'

'Sir,' Pansy pleaded, 'Daphne fell into the Lake! Potter was trying to kill her -'

'Potter? _Oh,_' the man groaned as his eyes fell upon an incredulous Harry. He looked back at Pansy for a moment. 'Don' worry 'bout yer friend, she'll be here in a -'

As if on cue, a massive tendril shot out from the tunnel. Slowing down as it reached the harbour, it placed a shivering Daphne on the ground before petting her on the head and receding into the Lake once more.

'There yeh go! You alright, lass?' the man asked Daphne as he gently swept the traumatized girl into his colossal hands. She said nothing; an unreadable look plastered across her features as she gazed at Harry.

'Shoulda' known,' the giant man groused as he sent a glare in Harry's direction, 'you Potter boys got a death wish or what? Tryna' cos' me m'livelihood... night o' the Feast... ungrateful little...'

'_Bit_ insensitive,' Harry remarked under his breath to Neville, before he was socked by his soggy outer robe, 'oh, thanks Daphne.'

He tightly wrung the fabric out as they travelled up a passageway carved into the rock, which ended in an opening paved with damp grass, shrouded by the castle's awesome shadow.

'There it is,' Neville piped, pointing to a flight of steep stone steps that culminated in a towering oak door.

'It's incredible,' Harry breathed, gazing at the castle façade in all its splendor. Decorated with dozens of gargoyles, griffins and other mythical creatures that Harry could not identify, the walls themselves seemed to call out to him as loudly the Alley did a month previously. Shaking his head to remain focused despite his captivation, Harry heard a familiar voice nearby.

'Just wait until we're inside,' it replied knowingly. His eyes darting around, Harry finally recognized the voice as belonging to Hermione Granger, standing next to him as if she hadn't left since their first meeting. 'I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History _if you must know.'

'Hello Hermione,' he greeted cautiously, 'I'm glad you made it!'

'Why wouldn't I?' she challenged as they reached the head of the stairs. The giant man raised a fist, bludgeoning the door three times.

The oak doors eventually opened, bathing the arriving party in warm orange light as a sole figure stood before them. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald green robes analysed the crowd with a steely gaze.

'Thank you very much, Hagrid,' she said to the large man, 'your seat is ready at the High Table.'

'My pleasure, Professor,' Hagrid replied jovially as he plodded past the woman, surprising Harry by the stark contrast from his attitude only minutes before. As she turned and stalked off with military precision, the cohort of new students followed her lead. They entered a cavernous stone entrance hall, lit by flaming torches held by gargoyles identical to the ones outside. A cacophony of voices could be heard to the right, though the tall witch led them towards an empty chamber in the opposite direction. She waited patiently as the children gradually simmered down, looking at her with nervous expectation.

'Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,' she began in a strong, yet inviting tone, 'I am Professor McGonagall, your Deputy Headmistress for the foreseeable future. Beyond the opposite doorway awaits one of the most significant events in your school career - the Sorting Ceremony. Your Sorting will decide where you sleep, who you eat with and where you spend your free time for at least the next two years. The House you are Sorted into will be like your family of sorts, and is likely to remain with you even when you venture into the outside world.

'We have four Houses here at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin, each claiming its own decorated history and distinguished witches and wizards among their ranks. As you learn and grow within the School, your victories within the classroom and without will contribute towards a group effort in a competition for the annual House Cup. Rule-breaking and general insolence is not tolerated, and as such will likewise lead to your House being penalised. To enrol at Hogwarts is a mark of honour. When you travel outside its walls, even now, you are ambassadors not only of the school and your House, but the Union as a whole. You have been chosen as its best and brightest, and I would perish before letting any of you sully our name.

'Now the Ceremony is due to begin in the next few minutes, and will be followed by our start-of-term Feast. I suggest you all use the time to smarten up. We have guests, and it would do well for you _not _to embarrass us,' she finished, her eyes lingering on Harry, who had yet to put his outer robe back on. Grinning sheepishly, he draped it over his head and readjusted himself. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a ghost of a smirk cross McGonagall's face before she retreated into the Entrance Hall.

'Was there anything about the Sorting Ceremony in your book?' Harry asked Hermione as he stared at the doorway to the Hall.

'Not a word,' she muttered in reply. It suddenly occurred to Harry that he had no idea which House each of his parents belonged to, though hardly knowing them would have provided little guidance even then. He felt a hand grip his shoulder, and he spun around to meet Draco Malfoy's grave appearance.

'I've deemed you worthy, Potter,' he said, quietly but confidently, 'Zabini and Longbottom here agree,' he gestured to Neville, who nodded curtly. 'Rough around the edges, but you've got potential. No matter what happens on the other side, you'll have a place among us. Are you up to task?'

'Well, I guess,' Harry replied, unconvinced of the importance Draco appointed to the group of boys. Draco nodded and returned to his place, taking a deep breath as he rolled his shoulders back in preparation. As he turned back to Hermione, Harry met her eyes, which narrowed in suspicion. Had he unknowingly accepted some binding magical agreement swearing fealty to the wealthy boy? Hermione might have known, but wasn't about to tell if her features were any indication. Harry exhaled and fixed his view on the doorway once more. It was nerve-wracking, but he had magic on his side. It had always been on his side... well, for the most part. In any case, he'd already come home, he thought - this test would be as easy as climbing into bed.

Of course, his confidence was shattered as McGonagall returned to the chamber.

'The Sorting Ceremony is to begin shortly.' She drew her wand; with a wide arc and a rush of wind, the students' hats disappeared.

* * *

**A/N: **As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

If there's one thing I love about writing fan fiction for this series, it's the setting. We will visit the Muggle world again, that's unavoidable, but it may not be for some time. The next chapter should be out within a fortnight... should be. Thanks for reading! :)


	6. Minerva Needs A Nightcap

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Untitled Tome_

**SUMMARY: **The first-years are Sorted, Harry eats cake, and the Headmaster delivers the start-of-term address.

**Author's note: **Hi everyone, here we are again! Genuine apologies for how long it's taken to get this one out... I know, that was one _long _fortnight. Yeah, real life has gotten in the way, but it's more than that. To keep this all consistent, I might need to write up several reams of supplementary material to refer to. Writing this chapter from head to keyboard instead kinda hammered that point home. So I may not update for a bit, but don't fear - this is still ongoing, and _should _pick up after the following update.

Many, many thanks to those who have reviewed so far! It would be great if a few more people could leave feedback, of course - it's an excellent motivator, and constructive criticism really is appreciated! The spirit of this story is dedicated to - and _belongs_ to - the community, second only to JKR herself, so your feedback is crucial. :)

Speaking of reviews, a couple of people have noted the conspicuous absence of Voldemort. If you're really concerned about this, I would strongly suggest that you sift through the earlier chapters: you might just find something interesting. ;)

* * *

**Chapter Six – Minerva Needs A Nightcap**

Magic, by its very nature, is a nebulous, enigmatic phenomenon, and it could be argued that the wizarding world is obliged to regularly adapt to its whims for mere survival. If there is one constant on which historians might reach a consensus, however, they would look no further than the time-immemorial institution of the school for magical arts. Even in the age of antiquity, many prosperous wizarding communities would employ a host of committed scholars at its nucleus, and the library was recognised as the most hallowed of halls.

If one were to ask the opinion of the average witch in Diagon Alley, she might describe Hogwarts School as nothing more than the archetypal ivory tower of British society. To many, it symbolised the forge for a creative class which thought little of the common wizard, and an aristocracy that cared even less. Were one to ask the typical School alumnus, of course, they would likely receive the polar opposite as an answer. Professor Minerva McGonagall, Head Girl of the Class of Fifty-Four and current Deputy Headmistress, was no exception.

It was in the body of Hogwarts that she saw a wealth of heritage and promise in equal measure. It was the castle's grounds, she felt, that the Union was indebted to for the prevailing culture of British wizardkind, as it also was for the future great pioneers of the Isles and territories beyond. Among the eighty first-years stood in front of her, a good third represented the next generation of the most decorated families in the nation: the Macmillans, the Davises, the Patils... silver-spooned? Yes, Minerva would reluctantly admit, but their sense of duty to the progress of all wizards was simply undeniable. That Neville Francis, for one, was the sole present heir of the Longbottom line illustrated the grave sacrifices that many among the older families made for the freedom of their magical brethren. She only hoped that the children before her would not suffer the same fate.

As for the remainder, the progeny of the working-class pure- and half-bloods were shining examples of the Union's commitment to improving social amelioration, with all disadvantaged students having been awarded generous scholarships in light of their magical potential. Then there were the Muggle-borns, their very presence betraying both the best and the worst of the Ministry's efforts - forever separated from their birth families, yet afforded the opportunity to prosper and stand counted among the greatest witches and wizards of the day. A necessary evil, she supposed, but for how long would the ends justify such means, and what of the Muggle-borns who were unfortunate enough to fall short of the school's criteria?

Convincing herself that brooding at such a time was a futile exercise, Minerva turned on her heels to leave the chamber, the first-years obediently following her in crocodile fashion through to the flagged stone Entrance Hall. A stale, foreboding silence permeated the air itself as they gathered behind the large double doors, until it was quenched by a dissonant but majestic trilling of what sounded like horns and flutes in the next room. McGonagall accepted the signal, clapping her hands together. The doors creaked open, granting passage to the anxious group.

* * *

Harry found himself mesmerised as the group followed McGonagall into the Great Hall. Its neat, angular form, offset by swirling embellishments and ornaments across its walls and along its many pillars, somewhat resembled the dramatic, extravagant interiors of cathedrals that the orphanage would visit on day trips, save for the four oak dining tables that stretched along the astonishing length of the Hall. Each table seated a couple hundred students, most of whom looked either disturbed by the fanfare or starved - which was understandable, given the empty, glittering golden plates laid before them.

As lofty as it was long, the colossal chamber was also furnished with vibrantly coloured, animated stain-glass windows depicting chivalrous knights and mischievous fairies, and even a silver self-playing pipe organ circled by thousands of flickering golden candles, installed high above in the starry heavens... _where in heaven was the roof?_

_'_I know what you're thinking,' said Hermione with a smirk, 'intriguing, isn't it? It's an Enchanted Ceiling, the oldest known example as well, according to_ Hogwarts: A History. _Probably think of themselves as gods, no less...'

Whether Hermione's closing remark was valid or otherwise, it certainly left an impression when Harry set eyes upon the foot of the Hall. A tall flight of maroon-carpeted stairs led to yet another oak table, which accommodated several dozen adult wizards.

Twirly beards, crooked hats, dashing robes and all, they were (in most senses) the picture of fairytale magicians, commanding the respect of their apprentices from their elevated position. Harry quickly identified Doge and Flitwick, who were seated at the far left of the table, in hushed conversation as they cast furtive glances over the Hall. At its center, a tall, jolly looking and crooked-nosed old man with a long, silver beard and moustache in shimmering purple robes sat atop a throne-like oak chair, decorated with golden interlocking patterns. He winked as he met the eyes the first-years on the other end of the chamber.

'Maybe Odin, at a stretch?' Harry muttered to Hermione, who covered her laugh with a cough.

As McGonagall escorted the group to the side of the carpeted stairs, another party slowly made their way through the oaken double doors. It was composed of several other students, headed by an older boy and girl who levitated a stool that seated an peeling, misshapen hat. McGonagall's Vanishing of their own headgear made a little more sense now, he thought.

Harry supposed he should have anticipated it, but couldn't help raising an eyebrow as the line of students behind the pair broke into song:

_'Draco dormiens -'_

_'- nunquam titillandus -'_

The procession was a full choir. Sections exchanged phrases in a fugal fashion as the harmony developed, the words remaining the same, all the while accompanied by the unmanned pipe organ; somewhat reminiscent of a plainsong-cum-processional. It was actually fairly normal, until the stool-flying hat 'decided' to join in:

_'DRA- CO- (draco dormiens nunquam titillandus) -'_

'How they _call_ to me,' said Draco imperiously, his eyes alight. Neville sniggered behind him.

Harry simply shook his head as he watched the choir form a line in front of the stairs, turning to face the seated students. The pair levitating the stool gently set it down as they lowered their wands, swivelling around to weave an intricate piece of wandwork for their audience to admire. The sweeping flourishes and twirls of their wand movements were nothing short of a complex, elegant routine performed with surgical precision. Plumes of smoke and many-coloured beads of light followed the paths of the pair's delicate yet confident gestures, slowly coalescing into an ethereal, revolving image of a torch-lit cave.

Inside, a burly, short-bearded warlock wearing chain-mail brandished a sword and wand against a club-wielding, giant-like beast. Many of the first-years began to chatter excitedly before being shushed by McGonagall. The chant and the organ gradually softened, until a solemn hum was all that remained. The hat, whose crooning of Draco's name had been abandoned, actually began to speak in a booming, majestic voice:

**'**_Gryffindor, bold and  
Brave, guards these halls  
Beyond the grave; with  
Righteous heart and sword of  
Light, mankind extolled  
His fearsome might!'_

Despite being awed by the magical performance, Harry felt anxious. Slaying gargantuan fiends to prove his worth in the Sorting did sound a little far-fetched, especially since the evidence pointed to simply wearing the hat as a rite. But considering Daphne Greengrass's mishap earlier, he couldn't rule it out.

The image began to shimmer and flicker as the pair waved their wands, losing its form but quickly morphing into a diminutive, excited-looking witch, surrounded by heaps of scrolls as she drew a massive, sparkling chalkline chart under a starlit sky. To his side, he heard Hermione hum in what he assumed to be approval once the hat resumed its tale:  
_  
'Ravenclaw, bright and  
Wise, gifts our walls  
With ears and eyes;  
Deft of hand and sound  
Of mind, she led the  
Clev'rest of her kind!'_

Hermione actually beamed at him, which was slightly unnerving. While the foreign letters, numbers and patterns of the chart looked a little intimidating, Harry reasoned that a more theoretical Sorting task would be preferable. He didn't mind a challenge, and the odds of death seemed far lower. That being said, he didn't believe the teachers couldn't possibly have the time to administer four tasks for every child.

The scene shifted yet again; this time around, it portrayed a woodland clearing at dawn. A powerfully built, fresh-faced witch wearing furry earmuffs was pruning the leaves of a ghastly human-shaped plant _(was it screaming?)_ over a bubbling cauldron. As she worked, a gaggle of busy elfin creatures with huge eyes and ears scurried around her:

_'Hufflepuff, loyal and  
Fair, tends these grounds  
With loving care; her  
Iron-clad nerve and honest  
Tongue endeared all  
Clans from ev'ry rung!'_

'Sounds about right for me,' Harry heard a boy whisper to another first-year behind him. Considering the self approving tone that lingered in his words, Harry privately disagreed. The performing pair waved their wands yet again, and the image transformed for a final time. In what appeared to be a dungeon of sorts, a bald, monkey-faced old wizard sat cross-legged, surrounded by a myriad shiny trinkets floating in the air. His fingers were placed to his temple, and his eyes were closed as if he were in deep concentration:

_'Slytherin, shrewd and_  
_Proud, seals our lore in_  
_Ancient shroud; a_  
_Blade-sharp wit and devious_  
_Plot didst raise these towers_  
_Above the lot!'_

The organ pipes flared, and the couple providing visuals jabbed at the air with their wands. The illusion exploded in an immense burst of colour; a surge of bubbles and sparks were propelled outward and scattered across the Hall. Students and staff alike broke into applause and Harry was certain that he heard Hagrid behind him, his hands colliding with deafening quakes as he cheered from his place on the High Table.

While the applause slowly died down, the organ expelled a flatulent noise as a strange, doublet-wearing spectral figure squeezed itself out of the pipes. It took a graceful bow in mid-air, swooping down towards the ground as it called, 'Assemble, one and all!'

'The Hogwarts ghosts!' whispered Hermione with rapt excitement, grinning and clasping her hands together as several more spectres phased through the stone flooring of the Hall, convening in a recess just under the starlit celling as they chattered amongst themselves. The performers filed out, taking their places among the seated students as McGonagall cleared her throat.

'The Sorting shall now commence. When your name is called, please take a seat on the stool, and the Sorting Hat shall assess your suitability for each House.'

'No elf probes?' a boy on Harry's far left cried in disbelief, 'My sister lied!'

Clamorous laughter spread across the Hall, and as he looked behind him, Harry was amused to find several of the staff joining in.

'There's always one,' he heard McGonagall mutter a little too loudly under her breath before sending forth a sharp, crackling sound with a snap of her fingers. The barks and giggles from every table died at once. She withdrew a long scroll of parchment from her robes; Harry felt his stomach tighten for the first time that night.

'Abbott, Hannah.'

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails rushed past him, eagerly claiming the stool as McGonagall lifted the hat. The chamber remained in silence for a few more moments, until the hat shouted, 'HUFFLEPUFF!'

The elder students and staff broke into applause yet again as the Abbott girl's robe hem and badge transformed to match the Hufflepuff insignia. She thrust the hat off of her head and scampered off to the table of similarly robed students. _Is this all there is to it?_

'Adler, Marian.'

'SLYTHERIN!'

'Bones, Susan?'

'HUFFLEPUFF!'

The routine carried on in the same fashion, and eventually 'Gakhar, Arjan' was met with warm invitation as he made his way to the Gryffindor table.

'Good luck, Hermione,' Harry whispered as 'Goldstein, Anthony', whom Harry now identified as 'Elf Probe Boy' was sorted into Ravenclaw.

'For what?' she replied boldly, though a small tremor in her voice suggested otherwise, 'I'm already here.'

'Granger, Hermione!'

Sucking in a deep breath, Hermione strode across the Hall stony-faced, a sea of scrutinising eyes following her every movement. She was a novelty, Harry realised, in a disturbing sense: there were no Grangers here.

As she sat for what seemed like several minutes, she appeared to be debating with whatever was taking place. She frantically shook her head while her hands quivered, clasping the stool with an iron-like grip. At one point, Harry wondered if Hermione would scream out loud; her cheeks were red and trembling with what he assumed might be rage. Her shoulders slackened eventually as she exhaled, and the faintest smirk crept across her lips as the Hat boomed:

'GRYFFINDOR!'

The congregation clapped with some enthusiasm, though they were reserved in comparison to several other students' receptions. Looking over her shoulder, Hermione gave Harry a fleeting glance before marching over to the Gryffindor table. The ceremony continued with Daphne Greengrass being promptly sent to Slytherin, a 'Higgs, Florence' joining her shortly thereafter.

Following 'Lombard, Rebecca' who was sorted into Hufflepuff, it was finally Neville's turn. A wave of murmurs bounced around the chamber as the round-faced boy took his place on the stool.

'Naturally,' the Hat sighed almost immediately, 'GRYFFINDOR!'

Neville grinned as he received almost unanimous applause, strutting over to Gryffindor's table to join Hermione. It appeared that his family was as popular as they were wealthy.

Draco was summoned not long after, and he certainly played the part. The Hall suffered a deafening silence as he glided over to the Hat. All eyes were on him, especially those from the Slytherin table. Harry soon understood why, as the Hat had hardly touched the boy's head before yelling, 'SLYTHERIN!'

He smirked and puffed out his chest as he made his way to the Slytherin cohort, receiving strong applause, though not quite as much as Neville.

A set of twins, 'Patil, Padma' and 'Parvati' were soon sorted into Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively, and Pansy Parkinson accompanied Daphne in Slytherin minutes later. Harry, who had been lost in analysing the destinations of each student and what each sorting meant, was wrested from his thoughts as his name was read out.

'Potter, Harry!' Once again, idle murmuring followed the announcement.

'The Baron? Did he have a kid?'

'It was in the paper, you muppet!'

Harry warily took a seat on the stool as McGonagall set the Hat over his head, its wide brim obscuring his vision.

_'Oho!' _a gravelly voice said in his head. Harry took a sharp breath. '_The last Potter, I see.'_

_'I'm not...' _Harry thought back, '_loads of pot makers in the world... even if I was the last person on Earth called "Potter"... must be surnames meaning "potter" in another language...'_

_'Oh, we have a thinker,' _the voice teased, '_just like your father, though... you waste it on nonsense.'_

_'Sorting Hat... you can hear my thoughts... bloody amazing... extremely invasive... still amazing...'_

_'Let's just get this over with, shall we?'_ the Hat griped._ 'Okay... you're a hard-working one, for the most part...'_

Harry grumbled in protest.

_'Don't think at me like that, boy, I just call them like I read them! Now, now, now. Ooh yes, definitely a clever clogs, aren't you? Very creative, and you'll pick it all up quite quickly I reckon... interesting. You have a mission.'_

_'A mission?' _Harry thought, confused, though a brief image of Phil grappling Greg in a headlock jogged his memory.

_'Yes... it's a righteous goal, if not naive...' _the Hat mused, _'you show ambition and courage in abundance, it would appear... the resemblance is uncanny...'_

_'_I _have_ to go back,_' _Harry whispered aloud.

_'Oh, I don't doubt it! But will you stay there, Harry Potter?'_

'GRYFFINDOR!'

The Hall was suddenly filled with a echoing avalanche of cheers and whoops, though none of the students applauded more than those at the Gryffindor table. Two red-haired boys (who seemed eerily familiar) actually climbed onto one of the benches, belting out an impromptu chant at the top of their lungs:

**'Hark, the Baron strikes once more  
Slain opponents pave the floor!'**

Overwhelmed by the reception, Harry was stunned for a moment until he was ushered forward by a smiling McGonagall. Once his legs had carried him to his destination, he was swarmed by the nearby students, young and old, all desperate to extend their congratulations.

'The torch burns again! Great to have you here, Potter!'

'I can't believe it! We got the Baron's kid!'

'Make your eyes light up, Harry! For _me_?'

Neville, who happened to be sitting opposite, gave him a wink and a thumbs up. Harry grimaced in return, trying to ignore the ongoing harassment as he watched the rest of the ceremony.

'Shastri, Bhupen?'

'SLYTHERIN!'

'Taverner, Dean!'

'GRYFFINDOR!'

The last fifth of the names were read out with no student interruption, most being sorted in quick succession. As McGonagall announced one of the very last handful, Harry recognised yet another boy he was sure he had run into before. _It's like he appeared out of nowhere..._

'Weasley, Ronald!'

'I've met him, dead certain,' Harry whispered to Neville as a gangly, thoroughly bored looking red-haired boy awkwardly stepped towards the Sorting Hat.

'Where from?' asked Neville, an eyebrow raised. 'I thought you were new?'

'Diagon Alley,' he replied, 'on my birthday. He was chasing Hermione Granger down the street.'

'The Muggle-born?'

'You know where you're going, boy,' the Sorting Hat boomed, 'show some enthusiasm! GRYFFINDOR!'

'He's a Weasley, alright,' said Neville flatly, smiling apologetically at Harry's quizzical look, 'my Nan knows them, relatives of a friend of hers. His dad heads a department in the Ministry. _Very _high-profile, location and all.'

'I suppose, London _is _a pretty big deal,' said Harry with pride, clapping as Ronald Weasley sauntered over to the Gryffindor table, looking as if he wished to be anywhere and everywhere else. Neville laughed.

'London, big?' he spluttered, 'You're a funny one.'

'What're you on about?'

'The Ministry is based in York, Harry,' Neville explained, 'Diagon Alley's a cool shopping spot, but that's it. London is pretty much goblin territory as it go-'

'Zabini, Blaise!'

Blaise, the last un-Sorted student left, strode towards the stool with his head raised high, rather akin to a courting peacock in Harry's opinion. A moment of silence passed as McGonagall lowered the Hat.

'SLYTHERIN!'

A final bout of applause rang through the Great Hall as Blaise took his seat at the Slytherin table. McGonagall withdrew her wand, waving it in a wide arc, and the first-years' hats materialised on their laps. Ascending the stairs, McGonagall placed a hand on the silver-bearded wizard's shoulder, appearing to whisper something in his ear as she occupied the empty seat to his right. Clearing his throat and giving the witch an appreciative smile, he rose from his wooden throne and extended his arms in greeting to address the students:

'Good evening, all. To our new arrivals, I am Professor Dumbledore, and on behalf of myself and the rest of the staff, welcome to Hogwarts! To those returning, thank you for coming home. Sorry that the chairs are all worn: I left them here, I could have sworn!'

'_Albus!_' McGonagall hissed. A few isolated guffaws could be heard among the otherwise puzzled silence of the Hall's occupants. Harry wondered (with faint hope) if this behaviour was typical of his would-be guardian. Considering Neville's amused expression, he believed that he might soon face the envy of his peers.

'Apologies,' said Dumbledore with a chuckle, now resting a hand on McGonagall's shoulder in empathy, 'the Castle has been unusually quiet throughout the summer, and I must confess to being more than overjoyed by a full house, as it were. Unfortunately, we've a plethora of announcements to bombard you with before the end of tonight's events, but for now: eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow may be our final day!'

And with that, Dumbledore clapped his hands twice before returning to his seat. Almost immediately, the golden plates were piled with copious amounts of food; a generous selection of mouthwatering meats, vegetables, side dishes and several delicacies that Harry had trouble identifying left no plates wanting, and crystal jugs filled to the brim with various beverages were stationed at several points on each table. Once the momentary paralysis of joy had subsided, the Great Hall swiftly descended into chaos.

The Yorkshire puddings went first; the mountainous dish hadn't lasted more than a half minute before the bloodthirsty Gryffindors had waged their assault. Harry, who only managed to scoop one to safety from the nearby onslaught, was a little disappointed, until the gleaming plate miraculously refilled on its own.

'I _love _magic,' Harry breathed jubilantly before helping himself to the newly replenished plate of puddings.

'Don't we all,' a voice beside him agreed with fervour. As Harry turned to his left, he was greeted by the extended hand of an elder, gangly boy with red hair, horn-rimmed glasses a stiffer upper lip than Miss Meacham could ever dream of mustering.

'Percival Weasley. It's a pleasure,' he clipped as Harry shook his hand, 'Potter, wasn't it?'

'Yes, I'm Harry,' he replied, noting that the boy wore the same silver badge that Draco's cousin had on the train, 'nice to meet you too. This is all quite grand.'

'Oh yes, but it _is _Hogwarts,' Percival said pompously with a flick of the wrist, 'pinnacle of British wizardry and all that rot. Our position comes with a duty to uphold such traditions, lest the masses lose sight of our unique identity. Wouldn't you agree?'

'Not really,' said Harry, slightly narrowing his eyes, 'whoever the "masses" are, whatever they want to identify with is hardly anyone's business, by and large.'

'Harry just owned a _prefect_,' Neville mouthed in amazement to a tall black boy sitting next to him, 'way to show 'em Gryff spirit, Harry!'

Percival didn't seem at all fazed as he sliced through a juicy cut of steak. 'A little bolshie, but ever the egalitarian,' he said mostly to himself, his upper lip quirked he looked up from his plate, 'you definitely are a Potter!'

Not actually knowing much about what it meant to be a Potter, Harry hastily changed the subject.

'So, _Weasley, _you said?' he began, 'I heard your Dad's quite high up in the old, um, Ministry... is that right?'

'Indeed it is,' Percy chirped as he sat up straight, 'my father is the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. He's mad about the stuff - it perplexes me at times. As you can imagine, even one electronic device could pose a serious problem for any magical community. Did you hear about what happened in Mould-on-the-Wold last month?'

'No, I -'

'Yeah, I did,' Neville interjected, holding up a runner bean-crowned fork as he inspected his reflection, 'my great-uncle's mate lives down there. Something about an exploding... _foam_?'

'It's called a mobile phone, apparently,' said Percival in confirmation, his hands reaching out to a jug of fruit juice, 'Muggle businessmen use them to communicate on-the-go. Ingenious for them, but dealing long-term Augo disturbance and extensive damage to the neighbourhood's Muggle-Repelling Array is no joke. My father's been hounding the Chambers for more funding to install nationwide monitoring charms to prevent such disasters for years, now.'

'Couldn't he ask the Cabinet?' Harry asked, 'You know, the Muggle one? It's in their best interests to keep us a secret as well.'

'I'm not sure that many would agree with you,' Percival responded, 'but even if it is, we're fully autonomous from the United Kingdom, as are most other wizarding populations and their counterparts, so they don't really have any responsibility for magical matters whether they lie within their borders or not. Unless we threatened their own sovereignty, one might argue. Then there's the Trade Amendment to the International Statute of Secrecy, of course...'

While Percy drifted towards stressing the necessity of supporting ICW legislation to bolster international cooperation, Harry and Neville struck up a conversation with two other first-year boys: Seamus Finnigan, a pint-sized, sandy-haired Irish youth; and Dean Taverner, a dark-skinned Londoner who appeared taller than many third-years.

'Sir Albus! Top man, he is,' Seamus said brightly, saluting in the Professor's general direction at the High Table, 'delivered me letter in person, would you believe! Got me ma some work in Hogsmeade an' all. 'Course, we had to move - would've been a bitch of a commute otherwise!'

The boys sniggered in agreement. 'Whereabouts in Ireland did you live?' asked Neville as he took a liberal swig of pumpkin juice from his goblet.

'Hy-Brasil,' Seamus answered with a prideful grin, 'you've heard of it?'

Dean clicked his tongue, rubbing his chin in thought. 'I went there once,' he said, his eyes fixed upward in fond reflection, 'not quite sure how we got there, but I think that's the point, isn't it?'

Seamus, Dean and Neville shared a short laugh, while Harry's brow furrowed in bafflement.

'I don't quite follow,' he said hesitantly as he regarded the boys with a questioning look, 'why would you forget how you got there?'

'Phantom island,' said Seamus with a smirk, 'so you won't see or find it 'less you're with someone who was born there.'

'The ninth-largest Unplottable location worldwide,' Dean added, 'said our guide, anyway. Mum and Dad say there are loads in the Grenadines, but it's been years since we've gone, so I can't be sure.'

'Maybe it's a good idea, seeing as you'd get lost everywhere,' Harry jested as the boys roared in laughter.

'I wish it was that cool,' Dean replied, still sniggering, 'but my dad just can't take that much time off work, these days.'

'What does he do?' asked Harry.

'He's a painter,' answered Dean, 'kind of awesome, he's taught me everything about it. Does the _Mab and Chip_ strips for the _Prophet _as well. That's where most of his time goes, I guess.'

Seamus' eyes widened. 'Wait, your dad's _Silas _Taverner?' he asked excitedly. Dean nodded, and Neville shook the boy by his shoulders.

'That's wicked!' Neville exclaimed, 'Harry, his dad is Silas Taverner!'

'Oh, that's cool,' said Harry distractedly, his attention elsewhere. The ghost who had leapt out of the organ earlier was now seated at the far end of the Gryffindor table, and was apparently embroiled in an interesting discussion with none other than Hermione and Ronald Weasley. That being said, the latter did little else than quietly eat, mull over a comment made by one of the other two, and nod curtly before returning to his meal.

'Sorry, Percival,' Harry called to the elder boy, 'but is that your brother?'

'Percy, please,' he said vacuously as he waved Harry off, peering at the other end of the table after he had finished talking to another older student. 'erm - oh yes, that's Ron. He's a strange lad. Quiet, but witty when he wants to be, I'll have you know. Seems Old Nick has taken a shine to him.'

'Old Nick?'

'Well yes, Nearly-Headless Nick,' Percy elaborated, 'our House ghost and self-proclaimed school organist. Were I Head of House, I would prefer a ballsier representative, though I digress.'

'What? Headless?' Seamus piped up, 'His head looks alright to me.'

Percy rolled his eyes. 'Don't you listen?' he asked loftily, 'I said _nearly _headless. If you don't believe me, you can ask him for yourself. Sir Nicholas!'

The ghost, who had since started talking to another group of students, looked down the table to find his summoner. 'Coming, coming,' he said hurriedly as he quickly waded over to the group.

'Hello, Percival,' he greeted the red-haired boy, 'congratulations on - ah, more first-years! Well met, lads! Enjoying the festivities?'

'We heard you're "nearly" headless - how does that work?' asked Seamus as he chewed loudly.

'I never_-' _Sir Nicholas blustered, glaring at Percy, 'did you put them up to this, _Prefect_ Weasley?'

Percy looked incredulous. 'Hardly, all I -'

Harry beat him to the punch. 'He said it was best to ask you personally, sir. I apologise for my friend's rash behaviour -' (Seamus shouted 'You what?' in retaliation) '- but you can understand why we would be so curious.'

Sir Nicholas glowered at Percy for a long moment before relenting. 'Very well,' he sighed in defeat. The spectre yanked an ear, and to the boys' surprise and disgust, his head followed, only connected to the neck by a thin sliver of ephemeral flesh. The group squirmed as he re-adjusted himself; he seemed a little too satisfied with their reactions.

'So,' he said smugly, 'I suppose you want to know-'

'No, please don't,' Neville replied quickly, fiercely waving his hands in protest. Satisfied, the ghost let out a spiteful bark as he glided towards another group of students.

'So each House has its own ghost?' Harry inquired.

'Quite,' said Percy, pointing over to the Slytherin table, 'you've got the Bloody Baron over there, for example.'

Harry almost jumped out of his seat. 'Who?'

'I just told you, Potter,' said Percy exasperatedly as he continued gesturing towards the Slytherin table. As Harry surveyed the scene, his eyes fell upon Blaise, who was attempting to talk to an unpleasant looking, gaunt-faced ghost wearing robes stained with silver blood. The Baron seemed to be more interested in the uncomfortable Draco seated opposite, however, coolly regarding the boy with a blank-eyed stare.

'That's - that's not my dad, is it? You said _Bloody _Baron, right Percy?' he asked the elder boy nervously, his face ashen.

'Hm? Oh, heavens no,' Percy said with a chortle, lightly clapping the younger boy on the back, 'it all does get rather confusing, I suppose. Yes, that's the Bloody Baron. Though scores of other wizards have and do claim the right to the title of "Baron", your father _is_ often confused with him, amusingly.'

'I wouldn't call it that...'

The Feast continued with few words exchanged between the haughty Prefect and Harry himself, until Percy caught Harry staring down the table at a now solitary Hermione.

'You have an odd fascination with her,' he said flippantly. Harry's head span back.

'Excuse me?' he asked, his voice a little more heated than preferred.

'With Hermione,' Percy clarified, a grin spreading across his face as an assortment of desserts replaced the unwanted leftovers of the main course. 'you're like my father in that regard.'

'Er -'

The Prefect scoffed. 'Don't be a dunce, Potter, I'm talking about her being Muggle-born. Ever since she came to stay with us, my father has inundated her with questions about this and that. The special treatment he gives her... Why do you find them so interesting?'

'Because I _am _one,' Harry shot back, feeling his temper flare as a squadron of profiteroles flew into him, unceremoniously but fortunately dropping onto his plate. He devoured one before casually adding, 'you'd do well to remember that.'

'Whoa - nice one, Harry!' Dean cheered after witnessing Harry's somewhat absently performed feat, 'Looks like the Prophet was right for once!'

'Doesn't your dad work for the Prophet?' Neville asked, bemused.

'Ain't a - _gah - _reporter though, is he,' Seamus defended, his face reddening as he strained to levitate a bowl of Spotted Dick in vain.

'Best leave it, mate,' Dean said, patting the wee boy's shoulder in pity.

Percy stared at Harry intently, as if he were assessing the younger boy as a potential threat. Not being one to turn down a challenge, Harry stared straight back.

'You'll watch your mouth, Potter,' Percy snarled, his chin slightly upturned, 'unless you want to lose more than just House points.'

The Prefect eventually broke his gaze after narrowing his eyes, possibly finding the affair to be a fruitless pursuit. Eagerly collecting a few more profiteroles from the serving dish, Harry shrugged it off, only mildly concerned that he may have committed a major faux pas by crossing a Prefect before classes had even begun.

Several minutes later, he spotted the Headmaster leaving his seat at the High Table once more as he carefully descended the flight of steps, long velvet robes rippling as they slid along the maroon-coloured carpet. He stopped behind a tall, ornate golden lectern stationed at the top-left foot of the stairs, its desk supported by a statuette of an owl whose wings spread as the ancient wizard gently clasped its feathers, shuffling through several sheets of parchment.

Clapping his hands twice as he had before, every dish, receptacle and piece of cutlery vanished instantly with nary a flash, band or clink. Most of the first-years were astonished; the bulk of the Hall's occupants, however, appeared especially annoyed that their plenteous banquet had been cut so tragically short.

'Indeed,' he spoke in a rich, round tone which promptly silenced the students' protests, 'we are yet again confronted with the slippery passage of time; it certainly is Fate's cruel champion. Nevertheless, we have much to discuss tonight. Before we begin, however, I would like to thank our School Chamber Choir and our ceremonial ministers on behalf of the staff for a flawless opening to the Start-of-Term. They have practised relentlessly during the later summer period in the Hogsmeade Village Shrine, and I believe they deserve the highest praise for their efforts.'

His acknowledgements were accompanied by a bout of polite applause. 'I feel that it is worth noting,' he continued, 'that the newly qualified Master and Apprentice Theurgists in our Head Girl, Heather Edgecombe and Hufflepuff Prefect Aaron Jones -' another, far more enthusiastic round of applause followed, '- sought the blueprints of an esteemed Hogwarts alumnus. Silas Taverner, who sat his final examinations in this very Hall almost twenty five years ago, graciously contributed his exceptional artistic prowess to assist in the preparation of this year's ceremony.

'While I would not deign to suggest that such generosity may have been spurred by an element of nepotism -' a light smattering of stifled snorts and a sigh from McGonagall was heard from the staff, '- one mustn't overlook the fact that Mr Taverner refused all compensation, professing that fulfilling his "obligations to the spirit of Hogwarts Castle and all that it represents" was more than enough. I mention this because I am of the firm belief that it is not this Castle or even the Highlands' magic that is responsible for our enduring strength, but indeed its students, its educators, its caretakers and the inalienable relationships that bind us all together. Please remember this when you happen upon a fellow student in need, or when you are given clear, albeit unpopular instruction from a member of staff. It is even more prudent to remember our bond as we leave the Castle grounds: we are ambassadors for this institution. We pride ourselves in competence, courtesy and compassion, but beyond all, _community.' _

As the occupants of the Hall clapped yet again, Harry felt the urge to comment on Percy's hypocrisy. Hadn't he used his position to threaten Harry only moments earlier? If the values that Sir-Professor Dumbledore stressed were so highly sought after at Hogwarts, how did someone like Percy even manage to attain the title and responsibilities of a Prefect?

'Now,' the Headmaster intoned in an effort to pacify the warm ovation of his audience, 'we must address the lengthy catalogue of start-of-term announcements. First of all, Professor Snape of the Potioneering Department and his party of students have yet to return from the School's August trip to Bolivia, though they shall return to the Castle in time for the beginning of regular classes at the start of next week. He has sent his regards by owl, and has kindly requested that his first- and third-year students prepare for a challenging yet rewarding approach to their classes, quote unquote, "syllabus be damned".' Many of the elder students giggled in response, and Harry watched McGonagall turn an impressive shade of red as her jaw appeared to spasm.

This Snape character easily grabbed attention, it seemed - he could rest assured that his Potioneering class had an interesting teacher, at the very least. The Headmaster flashed a knowing smile to the High Table; an impossibly rotund, bald old wizard who occupied almost as much space as Hagrid returned it with a wink as he twirled his thick moustache. Chuckling to himself, the Headmaster collected his thoughts for a moment before continuing:

'Extra-curricular classes and Clubs shall commence tomorrow afternoon as usual. Professor Toothill has kindly requested that all students deliver sign-up forms to her office by Tuesday morning, in the event that anyone neglected to do so during the summer break by owl post. First-years are advised that Flying and Combat sessions require preliminary Health and Safety seminars before entrance is permitted. Introductions to Optional and Elective classes for third- and sixth-years shall commence on Wednesday morning, as will Orientation for our new first-year cohort. Should you have any concerns about your schedule, you are urged to consult your Head of House before the end of the coming week, but ideally as _soon as possible._

'The Merlin League Inter-School Quidditch season shall begin on the second of November: try-outs for the First, Second, Third Seven will take place throughout the duration of the next two weeks, under the direction of Madam Hooch. Likewise, Professor Toothill will also hold try-outs for the School's Duelling Squad at all levels with the assistance of Professors Merrythought and Flitwick...'

'Wicked,' Neville whispered across the table, 'who's up for Duelling try-outs, then?'

Harry shook his head immediately. 'Sounds cool,' he said under his breath, 'but I think you probably need a year or two of those Combat sessions to -'

Shocked by an abrupt knock to the head, Harry whirled around to find a reproachful-looking Percy, wand in hand.

'Is he allowed to do that?' Harry mouthed to the other boys, receiving a few shrugs in response.

'... advised to avoid crossing Mr Hagrid's cabbage patch, lest one wish to incur "another decade-long famine like that cursed -"... ah.'

The Headmaster looked back at the High Table to nod to Hagrid, whose face was flushed as he coughed in embarrassment.

'Quite,' the old wizard remarked with a cheeky grin, 'which conveniently brings us to our next item of concern. We here at Hogwarts are firmly against the micromanagement of our students' free time. Nevertheless, it must be stressed that the Forbidden Forest is indeed such - _forbidden_. Students without a permit are strictly prohibited from entering the Forest: should one be so fortunate to survive the experience, as was the case at the end of last term,' Seamus audibly gulped at that point, 'they should expect severe disciplinary action not limited to exclusion for the remainder of the year and whatever may follow as a consequence.

'On a lighter note, you may have noticed that we are playing host to a number of distinguished guests this evening. Samhain is fast approaching, and this year we are most fortunate to share the company of Athair Timothy Gordon, Root-Priest of Inverness, and his fellow Druids of the Larachbeg Grove. They will be providing invaluable counsel concerning matters of the spirit in preparation for and during the festival, and will be more than willing to answer any theological questions students may have, I am sure. In return, I only ask that you pay them the utmost respect, whether you adhere to the Old ways or otherwise.

'Our first School assembly, led by Professor McGonagall shall be held next Monday after breakfast - try not to be late. That is all for tonight: off to bed with you!' As if on cue, a squad of Prefects from each House rose from their seats and scoped their respective tables, gathering the first-years as the rest of the School fought to exit the Great Hall's already overwhelmed doorway.

'First-years Gryffindors, file behind me!' Percy ordered as left his own seat. Meeting Harry's gaze, he grabbed the younger boy by his robes, leading him to the edge of the Gryffindor table.

'Stay where I can see you, Potter,' he said curtly, tapping his glasses before heading off to round up the remaining children. Harry presumed he was being made an example of some sort; the likelihood of Percy already disliking him probably made the Prefect's choice that much easier.

The red-haired boy promptly led them out of the packed chamber and up the wide marble staircase at the end of the Entrance Hall. What would follow was the largest snakes-and-ladders set Harry had ever encountered. The cavernous tower was fitted with countless staircases of varying widths and lengths, the vast majority of which tended to pivot, dive and temporarily join with a once disconnected platform, or corridor. If it really was a game, it also came ready with spectators; what had to be hundreds of moving portraits littered the walls, eagerly chattering amongst themselves as they observed the scrambling students.

'Harry, look!' Neville gasped, pointing towards the west wall at around half the ceiling's height, 'they've got _slides _in the castle!'

They eventually managed to brave the Grand Staircase, but barely. Seamus, despite prior warning from Percy, almost fell through a disappearing step. He only averted causing a human landslide thanks to the reflexes of Lavender Brown, another first-year of their House, who kicked him up the flight of stairs before he was too late. To his annoyance, everyone found the incident extremely funny, even Ronald Weasley. His sniggers near the front of the line were the first noises Harry had heard from him that night.

As they reached the end of a corridor on the seventh floor, a giant silver shield adorned with the bust of a sleeping dragon gleamed in the candlelight.

'Caput Draconis,' Percy said boldly as the youngsters gathered around him, in a commanding tone that Harry would have thought impossible coming from him minutes earlier, 'a test of courage for those "new to the fold" as it were, and a guardian of the treasures that lie beyond it - namely we, the latest generation of Gryffindor's chosen. There are no excuses: our Founder provided us with the Hat, and the Hat brought you here. The Dragon's Head does not harm its own. Granger!'

There was an awkward silence before the crowd finally dispersed, allowing Hermione to come forward. Her steps were hesitant, but her eyes resolute as she surveyed the giant shield. Stopping just short of Percy, she turned to the tall boy to give him a questioning look.

'Go on now,' he urged, pushing her forward, 'walk up to the dragon. It'll wake up soon.'

As Hermione edged closer, the Dragon's Head slowly roused. It yawned and hissed, its long snout gradually opening wider and wider as if poised to attack at any moment.

'Tickle the uvula,' said Percy quickly.

Hermione swerved round to look at him, incredulous.

'Unless you think the Hat made a mistake, Granger,' he added mirthfully. Far from just being a pompous annoyance, Harry was truly beginning to dislike the boy now. If a glaring Neville beside him was any indication, he wasn't alone.

Tightly drawing her eyes shut, Hermione gritted her teeth and thrust her hand forward, swiftly tickling the dangling uvula before the dragon's teeth could claim her arm. The bust froze immediately, the shield falling back on its hinge as Hermione snaked back her arm, revealing a porthole of reasonable size.

'Don't worry, all,' Percy said cheerfully, meeting the sea of terrified and vengeful stares directed towards him, 'the dragon just clamps your arm if you don't make it in time. All you need to do to set yourself free is follow my advice. Good work, Granger! I'll get you House points for that, rest assured.'

With a tight-lipped smile, Percy climbed halfway into the stone porthole, beckoning the first-years forward. Warily following him through the recess one-by-one, the first-years entered a spacious circular room, furnished with squashy, scarlet-coloured armchairs and a fireplace that covered a good chunk of the far area of the wall, which was otherwise paved with red-and-gold embroidered tapestries depicting numerous witches and wizards - likely former Gryffindors. Trophy cases and bulletin boards took up the east hemisphere, while a window depicting the clear night sky and overlooking the grounds separated two doorways on the opposite end of the room.

'Welcome to the Gryffindor Common Room,' Percy lauded, 'sometimes referred to as the Lion's Den -'

'It is _never _referred to as the Lion's Den,' an elder reddish-blonde girl Harry remembered as the Head Girl said tiredly as she jumped through the porthole, a tall black boy with an afro close behind.

'Give 'em a rest, Perce,' he said, mimicking the red-haired Prefect's haughty tone as he clapped him on the back, 'little tikes are tuckered out by now, you don't want to bore them, eh?'

Percy's mouth moved for a while before he actually spoke. 'But I, you see -' he started.

'It's okay Percy,' the Head Girl assured him with a warm smile, 'you did great! Showing promise and all that good stuff... now go on, get your beauty sleep.'

Percy looked helplessly at the two, before nodding reluctantly. 'If you insist,' he said wearily, taking a bow before exiting through the right-hand door.

'Hello firsties!' the boy with the afro greeted, spraying confetti over the crowd with a flick of his wrist, 'Bobby Jordan, at your service! Now who's ready to do some _magic stuff?_'

Most of the first-years cheered in chorus. '_Sorcerers_,' the Head Girl sneered under her breath before joining in, 'welcome, new Gryffindors. I'm Heather Edgecombe, Head Girl for this year. Congratulations on making it into the best House! We've got loads to cover, but we can make a start in the morning. For now, girls take the first floor on the left, boys do the same on the right. Any questions?'

'Do we get our own rooms?' asked Hermione quietly, with more than a hint of what Harry thought was nervousness.

'You'll be sharing with four others,' Heather responded, her brows furrowing as she regarded the younger girl and her peers, 'is everything okay?'

Hermione nodded her head quickly, attempting to avoid anyone's gaze as she stayed silent.

'Righty then!' Bobby said jovially, rubbing his hands together, 'I'm bushed. Off to bed, you lot. Long day tomorrow!'

The group of first-years promptly took their leave. As they climbed the first flight of stone steps to the right, the boys were welcomed by a pair of oak doors labelled by golden plaques.

'Finnigan, Longbottom...' Neville murmured as he examined the door on the left, 'Harry, Dean, you're over here too!'

The quartet hurried through the oak door, encountering a cosy chamber with five four-poster beds hung with deep red, velvet curtains, each accompanied by the boys' trunks.

' 'Ello Trevor,' Neville gushed as he prodded the sleepy brown toad through its cage, 'where's Hedwig, Harry?'

'Er, the _Owlery?' _Harry replied uncertainly as he read the parchment left on the owl's cage, 'West Tower, apparently. At least I won't have to clean her droppings for a while.'

They sniggered for a moment, looking back as they heard the oak door creak, large hands grasping the frame as it gradually swung forward.

'Forgot there were five of us,' Neville mused to himself as he returned to prodding Trevor. As a tuft of red hair poked through the entrance, Harry let out a sigh before walking over and yanking the door open.

'Don't worry,' he said to the edgy form of Ronald Weasley, 'no one's asleep yet. You're Percy's brother, right?'

Ronald nodded, his shoulders hunched over. 'Yeah, I'm Ron,' he replied solemnly, 'sorry he's such a twit...'

Harry grinned, pumping the boy's hand, 'No worries, it's not your problem. I'm Harry Potter - welcome to the Lion's Den, Ron!'

The group of boys (including Ron, even) roared in laughter, and quickly set to looking over their quarters. Harry was slightly relieved; they were no Phil and Greg, but his new dormitory mates appeared to be a decent lot. He supposed that time would only tell, though.

'We're not actually gonna call it that, are we?' Seamus asked as he unfolded a pair of pyjamas.

'You've got _no _say, mate,' Neville jeered, wagging a finger at the sandy-haired wizard, 'might give your vote to Lavender, though.'

Ron laughed, earning a glare from Seamus. 'Wicked left boot, that girl,' he said with a shrug as the smaller boy stuck out his tongue.

'Your face, though,' Harry chipped in as he shook his head, 'when you fell into Fay Dunbar. _Priceless._'

'The best,' Dean chuckled, almost tripping from his bed as he hung a poster from the wall, 'it was all like "I died in your arms tonight!"'

Seamus groaned as Dean broke into giggles halfway into his serenade. Harry, the only one to recognise the lyrics, gave the lanky boy a standing ovation as he bowed in response.

'She is quite pretty, I guess,' Harry said eventually, fishing out his copy of _The Essential Alphabet of Magic_ from his trunk.

'But _Harry,' _Neville lamented as he his hand flew to his chest, 'what of fair Hermione? Think of her poor, delicate heart -'

'Leave it out,' Harry grumbled, feeling the heat rise to his face despite himself. In truth, the only girl he'd ever fancied was hundreds of miles away, but they would never need to know about her.

Ron's ears perked up at Neville's jibe. 'You _don't...' _he started, regarding the bespectacled boy with an upturned smirk.

'Of course not!' Harry scoffed, scurrying into bed with his book covering his face.

'She's alright, I guess,' the red-haired boy continued, ignoring the whistles and whoops directed towards Harry, 'once you get talking to her for a bit. Maybe you should join us sometime.'

Harry laid his book down, his eyes looking up in thought. He certainly didn't have a crush on Hermione; she had speared him with a wand upon their first meeting, after all. Then there was the kidnapping... She did seem clever, though, and as much as Harry got on with Neville so far, he could not hope to relate to the boy's wizarding upbringing, even if he wanted to.

'Maybe I will, Ron,' he replied simply, returning the boy's smirk as the whistles intensified.

* * *

Minerva was loath to admit that she enjoyed the Start-of-Term feasts; while her role meant that she was obliged to uphold a sense of decorum beside her superior who was renowned for his wilful ignorance of social mores, the slight hiccoughs that followed always added a whimsical flavour to the occasion which she, albeit privately, thoroughly enjoyed. Pouring herself a tumbler from a dusty amber bottle of Ogden's Old and taking a leisurely lap around her office, her eyes fell upon a faded, but still moving photograph framed above her glass cabinet. Depicting a gang of mauve-robed teenagers running amok with a giant silver trophy, she remembered the day it was taken as the Merlin League final of her sixth year at Hogwarts.

The family name McGonagall meant nothing then, she recalled. How embarrassing it must have been for the Ross clan, who had previously ousted her mother from the family tree, to seek Minerva's company and allegiance once she had appeared on a cover of _Transfiguration Today _for the first time among many! Her brothers and she reconciled with the clan only out of love for their mother; the McGonagalls were household names by the eighties, and even the Muggle heritage they prized hadn't qualified as a hindrance.

_That was then, _she reminded herself as she considered her latest intake of Gryffindors. She predicted Harry Potter would be a haphazard blend of James' cheek and Lily's maturity, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Potters were meant to be unhinged, however slightly. Whether her assumptions were accurate or not, only time could tell. Imelda Vane was the picture of her great-aunt Ethel, whom Minerva had shared a dormitory with many years ago. There was one other girl, however, whose determined features had been etched into Minerva's mind and refused to fade.

She shared a number of parallels with Hermione Granger, whom she had met several times previously. Hermione was a no-name, but was more than aware of what that meant and how it might work in her favour. She also possessed a brilliant mind for her age, was a free thinker, and was eager to learn about the world that had so viciously claimed her. Minerva hadn't had to suffer that particular tragedy during her own youth, but the following identity crisis that the Granger girl would eventually face was all too familiar. She resolved to keep a close eye on the young girl, as she would with Harry, but would it be enough? She wouldn't be inside every classroom, behind every tree, or even in every common room discussion. Minerva could only hope that the apparent acquaintance between the two would grow stronger in the face of the enemy who, in light of their heritage, had many different faces.

'To Gryffindor,' she half-laughed as she toasted her tumbler of Firewhisky to the air, before searching the glass cabinet for her wireless - it had been too long since she had last tuned in to _The Yeomen_, and Ogden's Old went so well with radio soaps.

* * *

**A/N: **As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

Expect a bit more inter-House banter and such in the next chapter, as well as classes, of course. Many thanks for getting this far; like I said, I'll be taking some time to properly frame the rest of the universe and timeline, etc., so keep your eyes peeled if you're interested! :)


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